Along the Way
by ThisIsntFunnyDean
Summary: Canon compliant/Enemies-friends/Pre-/post-Stanford. While Sam and Jessica pack to move apartments, Sam discovers a long-forgotten shoe box in the back of his closet that brings back memories he was happiest having forgotten - high school, old plans, Dean coming back, and the road trip that followed. A story of how they came back together, and why they moved apart again.
1. September 3rd, 2005

_September 3__rd__, 2005_

_Your music is turned on high volume, flying out through your open windows to ride the breeze. Jessica is spinning in a summer dress while the sweet California air mingles with the fabric. Already your lives have been reduced to the towers of boxes that line the walls of your apartment waiting to be moved, but neither of you are in a rush. If you were, maybe you would stop dancing in the open space where the couch used to be, twirling around until Jessica gets dizzy and you laugh along with her when she stumbles, but you aren't, so you don't._

_Now Jessica's started the work of emptying the kitchen cupboards if your things, leaving you to do the same in the bedroom closet. It isn't hearing her singing along to the music that makes your heart warm, but the idea that soon she will be filling the walls of a new home, instead. With the pieces of herself, and you of yourself, and this great thing being born between you. The lease was turned in yesterday but you both had been packing for days before that. You get the feeling your roommates are just happy to see you leave._

_The song ends with the faint click of the CD changing itself in the player. New notes and lyrics begin to play, one of Jessica's CDs. You reach and uncover a hidden corner of the closet yet to be packed that protects an old looking shoe box forgotten with time. It isn't until you reach with half your body that the tips of your fingers can even latch on._

_The lid is dusty, untouched for you don't know how long, but you know it's yours from the permanent marker on the side - 'Sam W'. You think. You can't recall what's inside anymore. So you lift the lid._

_Minutes have passed and it sits spilled out on the bed sheet, and you remember exactly why it was in the back of your closet._


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Friday, April 26th, 2002

The lunch hour never felt shorter than when **Sam** finally had Claudia alone to himself. Or, as alone as the two could get; true privacy wasn't a luxury afforded to students in these halls. Neither thought it a good idea to hidden the restrooms. The minutes ran past in a blur, their classmates streamed past like a stampede, and before they realized it, as always, they were nearly in a different time zone. Claudia pulled back from his kiss, laughing sweetly when Sam chased after, a hand on the small of her back. Sam tasted her lipgloss; green apple, sharp in smell, sharper in flavor. His liked that one most.

Sam's mouth fell to her neck instead as she turned away. She tucked flyaway hair behind his ear. In a rogue moment of clarity Sam realized they were abandoned in the hall, just as the first bell rang.

He groaned into the collar of her shirt, shoulders falling. Claudia laughed again.

"I need to get my books," Claudia said.

Sam groaned again.

"And so do you," she went on. Claudia stepped away, but took the hand resting on her back.

"Come on," she said.

Sam pulled their locker open and reached inside, revealing Claudia's textbook, then his own. From a small cup on the shelf, Claudia pulled a pencil, and next to it, her calculator. Sam was crouched elbow deep in his backpack.

"Here," Claudia said. She revealed a second pencil from the cup and dropped it in his hand. Sam stood and kissed her in thanks. He couldn't seem to stop, smiling. Sam continued searching for his notebook, thumbing through his stack of books. Claudia sighed and leaned back against the lockers, waiting. Around them, stragglers, just like them, hoping to beat the tardy bell rummaged through their lockers. The hall was emptying more by the second but Sam wasn't rushed.

"So I'll meet you at your place," Sam said, pulling and pushing aside books. "I was thinking around eleven."

Claudia nodded, loosing a wave of hair over her shoulder. "That works for me. Mom's usually asleep by then, anyway."

Sam stopped to look at her. "Not your dad?"

"Dad's usually in his office till, like, midnight, remember?"

Sam did, nodding. "That's what happens when you're a district attorney, huh?"

Claudia shared a slow blink. "Or when you're a bad dad, but sure. Eleven is fine. The party doesn't start till midnight anyway."

Finally, Sam found what he was looking for - a green notebook, flashing from the back of the pile, pinched in between two textbooks. Pulling it free, he said, "We'll be walking, unfortunately, so we'll need plenty of time for that. In case we get lost." He winked; Claudia rolled her eyes but laughed all the same.

"Are you drinking tonight?" Sam asked when she turned back.

Claudia crossed her arms over her stomach, the small smile falling away from her eyes. She looked around the hall. "No, I don't think so."

Sam waited but she didn't offer anything more. "Cool, me either."

At the locker to Claudia's free side, one of her cheer teammates was tearing through her locker. Claudia offered a small wave to her while Sam held the notebook under his arm, readjusting the books in his own locker to compensate. The longer Sam took, the thinner the traffic in the hall became, but it seemed this was what Claudia was waiting for. Her voice was low while she took a small step closer. "Actually, come sooner - if you can. I…need to talk to you about something."

Sam stilled, hand holding the locker door. He didn't like the words, but in searching her face saw nothing telling. She had her books clutched under her chest, hands tight. "Yeah sure," he breathed. "Am I in trouble?"

Claudia laughed to herself, but she glanced over her shoulder at her teammate, whose head was still buried in her locker. "Definitely." Her long hair followed in a florist as she turned and swayed down the hall to her waiting class. Sam could only stand there, stupid, watching her till she disappeared around a pair of people, and then around a corner.

_I need to talk to you about something_. A talk that apparently couldn't happen right then. And to walk straight away, no context. After a moment, Sam took a deep breath and turned back to his locker, pushing the door closed.

A voice rang in his ear. "Hey, Sammy."

Sam recoiled, his shoe scuffing loudly on the linoleum in his retreat. The shriek it made reverberating through the bare hallway, but even that couldn't have been louder than the sight of Dean himself, a wide smile blooming on his face. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his jeans but he looked no more relaxed for it. As he came back to his senses, Sam took in his brother's dirty work boots, frayed jean cuffs, the gloves hanging out of his coat pocket, and a smear of drying mud across one cheek. A feeling was growing at the base of Sam's thoughts as he worked up to meet Dean's eyes. He had a moment of contemplation, wondering if this was going to be like riding a bike, or if he'd forgotten how to do this after all this time.

"Long time no see," Dean said, still grinning. He didn't look away from Sam's gaze.

"I'm not leaving with you," Sam said in answer.

"Not just me. Dad's outside."

"Then I'm not leaving with you _guys_. It's the middle of the school day."

Dean rolled his head playfully, like Sam's refusal was just a slight setback. "Come on, Sammy, we could use a third set of hands."

Sam said nothing, but tilted his head slightly to point his chin at his brother.

Dean strode forward with an easy step, bumped Sam with his elbow, winking. He wore a mischievous expression. "Dad says vamps, but I don't think it's that serious. This town isn't interesting enough for that. It's just a quick back and forth, you'll be back before the bell rings."

Sam stood still, notebook still under his arm, where the wire was pinching his skin through his shirt, eyes on Dean's. He realized then - this was riding a bike. "Yeah, I've got to get to class."

"Relax, Sammy, I'm only kidding. I knew you'd turn us down. I still wanted to come in and say hi - I, uh…haven't seen you in a while." A sly gleam crept into his eye. "Who was that you were kissing on there?"

Sam raised a brow, confused, while a flush burned across his shoulders. "Nobody. You and dad aren't leaving then?"

Dean leaned against the wall of lockers, shaking his head. His eyes were trained to the last girl, Claudia's teammate, who closed her locker then and jogged away. At any second the late bell was going to ring, and Sam would have to get a tardy slip. Sam didn't _want_ to get a tardy slip, didn't want to make that walk of shame to the office aide's desk. Now that the shock of seeing Dean was burning out, he was beginning to get frustrated. To Dean, it never mattered what Sam was doing when the mood struck to trap something, stab something, kill something, and it mattered even less _where_ they were. The truancy on Sam's record was proof enough and another would mean a court date and an explanation. But of course, was that important to John, either?

"You're really making me go back to dad empty handed?"

"Yeah," Sam said, "tell him I've got…" He pulled out his notebook and waved it around, the page flapping like bird wings.

Dean raised his shoulders and leaned his head forward. "I'm pulling your leg again, kid, don't worry. I'd have been surprised if you followed me out, honestly."

"Oh." The surprise escaped Sam before he could think anything of it. "Then…" Sam remembered, his mood turning slightly more sour. "You're just…saying hi?"

"Well _I_ couldn't tell dad no. So I came in when he told me to. But I was just gonna say hey and run back out, make up some excuse." He broke away from Sam, taking a step back to look around the hall absently. He sniffed and wiped a hand across his nose, which seemed to spread more of the dirt from his hands than wipe anything away. Across his chest he crossed his arms. "But, uh, so, yeah. You doing good?"

"I…yeah." Sam felt stunned, like he'd been flashed by the light of the sun off a passing car. Seeing Dean, he'd expected nothing other than an argument, and definitely not this. So cordial, no real mention of his absence, or an apology. "I'm fine."

From out of nowhere a classmate stormed past the two, down the hall, and through a door. The tardy bell blasted from every corner, and Sam felt slapped from the force of being put back in the moment.

Dean grimaced and started backing away towards the doors to student parking. "Shit, hey, I'm sorry you're late. I'll handle dad, don't worry about it." He turned and made it a few steps, but stopped, turned back. "Hey, uh, come by and hang out sometime, yeah? Since it's been so long." The two stared for a second before Dean nodded, his mouth retreated into thin lips, spinning again to disappear into the daylight. Sam gaped at the doors, closing behind him. He could see the faint shape of a figure sliding into a black car, then, as it peeled away a second later, Sam ambled to the office to find face the glare of the office aide.

—

Although the Impala wasn't parked outside, **Sam** crept into the house nonetheless, one ear open for John and the other for Dean. But just as he'd hoped, the house was silent, hollow. There was no sounds of talking, or moving. The only thing in the air was the subtle pressure that came from nothing less than complete solitude. He walked through the bones of the living room and passed the empty kitchen in the darkness of closed window shades, taking the stairs two at a time, and strode down the hall. For no longer than a second he paused at the first door, plasticine white like all the others but the room different just beyond it. He moved on, sliding behind the second door. He eased it closed behind him as to not alert the empty house. In his own room, he took a deep breath, and truly settled for the first time that day.

It was one part of the whole that made the house, true, but it was a safe niche Sam had carved out for himself as the weeks and months added up to the passed year. His own, with _his_ things and _his _energy. By no means large but it didn't need to be. Sam sat his backpack on the floor next to his desk, threw open his window, and tossed himself backwards onto the bed, sighing as the comforter relaxed around him and the mattress accepted his weight. If Claudia didn't have practice, Sam could be somewhere else right then, which would have been just as well, but the times were so rare when Sam had an empty house that there was no chance for wishful thinking. He listened for the sounds that weren't coming from John stomping through the house, or their TV turned up too loud in the living room. Sam kicked off his shoes and let them fall to the floor, if only to make his own noise for a change.

Sam brought his hands behind his head and settled into the blanket, the spring afternoon light flicker through the curtains in the warm wind. Copping a ride back to Lyon in the bed of a classmate's pickup was a five minute drive that saved him a forty-five minute walk, then it was a fast trek from the post office to the makeshift gate of their apartment complex, and if he meant to meet Claudia at 11 - earlier, actually, and he felt his heart spike at that - then he only had a handful of hours to finish his school work. Less if John interrupted him, which he no doubt would.

He took a deep, involuntary breath, at the looming deadline. Too much to do in the few hours he had left. The glossy pages of his wall calendar rustled in a breeze, swaying slightly on the tack as he sat up with a resigned sigh. Three bold circles waved back at him, old friends saying hello after their time apart.

May 2nd: his birthday.

May 10th: his graduation.

May 11th: moving day.

—

John and Dean found their way home in the time it took for the sun to set, earlier than **Sam** had anticipated. The wall of silence outside Sam's door fell apart first from the ridiculous noise of the Impala's engine, and second as Dean barged through the front door, shouting, "Sammy, I'm home!", as if he hadn't heard the Impala coming from a quarter mile down the road, or felt the pulse of the impending dread with every word he scratched out with his pencil. Knowing they were close was an extra sense, like a muscle that gets stronger with time. The TV turned on soon after, drowning out as the time passed and their arguing voices grew louder, and the absurdity was beginning to dawn on Sam. Dean hadn't stepped foot in the house since he'd left over a year ago and he was sitting downstairs, drinking and arguing with John like nothing had happened.

And now his alarm clock showed 9 PM. Sam ran a hand through his hair for the hundredth time that evening and leaned on his elbows, staring out the dark window. He'd gotten next to nothing finished even though, miraculously, no one came to knock down his door. All these hours the thoughts of his schoolwork were merely the background noise to the larger worries of _something_; Claudia wanted to talk to him about _something_. His promise to himself to not worry was broken as soon as he made it. Maybe she was sick, maybe her parents found something out, or the worst option, that John had somehow ruined this for him. Sam had been perfectly faithful and knew she'd been too, so it wasn't that. It could have been a problem at school, maybe, or something with someone on her team. There could have been something she wanted to confide in private. Or she wanted to leave…

Sam growled in his throat and pushed himself up from his desk, tossing down his pencil. He wasn't going to get lost in the wondering again, even if he had the time in the first place. The walk to Claudia's would only take half an hour, but she wanted to _talk_.

Sam sighed again and put his ear towards the door. He picked through the noises he found there. There weren't any drastic changes. The TV was on still but quieter now, which told Sam that somewhere along the way John and Dean had started another pointless argument over something and were keeping their own brooding silence. For a few heartbeats this was all Sam heard, but his hopes of a clean escape fell when he heard the low timber of Dean's voice, the even lower of John's in reply, that hadn't been there before. So, they weren't asleep. Sam clenched his eyes angrily.

"Fuck," Sam muttered to himself. Dean had no reason to be here, least of all at the hour. Besides this 'errand' John took him on earlier Dean hadn't shown his face around the apartment since the day he left, and now he was here with the sun down and would likely stay far past that. Sam faced the wall towards the vacant bedroom, wondering if Dean was going to stay the night. Whether or not he had the right to was a different tale.

But. Dean did have a truck, and Claudia wanted Sam there early…

Extra clothes under arm, Sam pulled open his door and followed the rush of air down the hall. At the top of the stairs the noise reach him before any light did. Despite hearing John's voice, he couldn't see him. But of course, he was there, Sam knew, when he saw a rogue arm over the back of the couch and knew John was lying down. Dean was slouched in the folding chair next to him, distractedly swirling the dregs of his beer can, his leg bouncing while his head rested against his fist. Long shadows fell behind them from the TV light. Past the kitchen again and towards John's room Sam would find the bathroom, but he apparently wasn't as silent as he wished; Dean turned his head at the creak under Sam's foot and met eyes with his brother, nodding his head and giving a friendly grin. He was in the same clothes he'd been at Sam's school, minus the boots, his somehow-clean socks standing out in an odd contrast. His leg had stilled.

"Hey, Sammy, I've been waiting for you," he called. Sam said nothing. And neither did John. Behind the cacophony of an ad Sam made it to the bathroom and locked the door.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Friday, April 26th, 2002

The strand of hair escaped from Sam's ear and fell in his face for the hundredth time, damp with steam over the hot water in the kitchen sink. He didn't bother tucking it back. And he didn't bother soaking up any of the water that had flown from the sink, dotting the counter. Barely, over the noise that surrounded him, Sam could hear the faint rumbling of John snoring from the couch, which meant Sam was also unbothered when he set a cup down too hard, clashing against the dishes already in the drying rack. He peeped the time on the microwave - 9:36 PM - and cursed at the remaining dishes in the sink. He was running late and John had him doing the fucking dishes.

When he'd stepped out of the steaming bathroom, Sam had seen John and Dean exactly how he'd hoped to - asleep, the can fallen from Dean's grip while his head hung backwards over the chair, mouth open, and although John himself had barely moved, the soft snores gave his answer to whether or not his dad would be a problem. It dawned on him then that he'd left his shoes upstairs. There was no chance was he wearing Dean's boots, the closest thing that he knew would fit, so upstairs and downstairs once more, silent like a breeze, and Sam was finally ready. Or he would be, if he hadn't stepped on Dean's abandoned beer can.

John and Dean were awake at once. Tomorrow, Sam would crack a smile at Dean's twisted grimace and big eyes when he raised his head, but in the moment Sam's heart was in his feet.

"Hey - hey, where do you think you're going?" John's voice was gruff with sleep but his words were still clear, though he was scrambling for something to grab onto and sit up.

Sam's hand stayed frozen in place, reaching for the doorknob. "I'm going to see Claudia."

John squinted his eyes and shook his head, bringing up a hand to scrub at an eye. "You're going to see her at…" He checked his wrist. "Ten in the goddamn night ?"

Dean was slowly coming to. He had a hand wiping at his mouth, then covering his yawn. "Who's Claudia?"

Sam swallowed, meeting his father's eyes. "Yeah, she's finally out of practice, so I was going to walk over."

"Nice of you to ask permission." John finally sat up with a grunt and ran a quick hand through his hair, over his face. His square jaw was dusty with stubble, his skin misty, the way it was when he drank. "And what do you plan on doing in the middle of the night?"

Sam shrugged. "Hang out. Study. Sit around." Never in a million years would Sam mention a party. Not because there were any rules against drinking, not exactly, but Sam was pretty sure John had a warrant out against any kind of fun. "But I told her I'd be there at around ten, so…" Sam reached for the door knob -

"Hold it," John barked. "I told you twice last night and once this morning, but - " John twisted around on the couch, eliciting a series of pops from his tired spine, and stared into the kitchen. "Those dishes still aren't done. You know the dishes are your job."

Despite himself, Sam looked towards his brother, for help or for reassurance, he didn't know, and felt suddenly like a sideshow display. Dean was staring blankly at his hands, thumbs rolling over each other while he waited the storm to pass. Sam's look turned into a scowl.

John swirled around can after can in search for one that wasn't totally empty, but found none. "You aren't going anyplace till those are done," he said. "And I'm not telling you a fifth time."

"No, I told her I'd be there at ten so we could - "

"Did you just tell me no?" John's eyes went wide, and the vein popped out of his throat the way it always did when he flexed his jaw. Dean caught Sam's eye with a small gesture of his head. Sam's own jaw clenched. He looked straight into John's bugged eyes and walked into the kitchen, because there was nothing else for it. John mumbled something faint to Dean, but all Sam heard was the word 'ungrateful'. Under the rush of the water, Sam couldn't hear anything anymore.

Now, he was done. Even later than he'd been before. Dean had been in and out of the kitchen a number of times while Sam worked, neither saying a word nor interfering, each time followed by the pop-fizz of cans opening from the other room. Getting a ride from him was out of the picture now, but flicking the kitchen light switch, he thought he had his own idea for fixing that.

John was once again asleep, and loudly, laying among a new collection of cans this time, yet Dean's area was unchanged. Only now asleep with his head resting in his palm, rather than hanging off the back of the chair.

Sam bumped his shoulder. No answer.

The first places Sam thought to look were Dean's pockets, but that was a bust - the way Dean slept, curled in on himself like he were trying to keep himself warm, cut off Sam's search at the pass. Regardless, Sam reasoned Dean had spent so much time in their house that Dean was bound to have discarded them somewhere. His jean pockets looked emoter, nonetheless, and Sam didn't think he was masochistic enough to be sitting on them.

But even after a quick search of the floor around him and the small coffee table, the keys were still missing. No chance he'd left them in the ignition itself, Sam know. He stared at the sleeping Dean, and resigned to the inevitable. He pinched the hem of Dean's coat, and gingerly pulled it back. He revealed an interior pocket, flat and empty. Sam stole a glance at his brother's face. Still asleep.

It wasn't going to be easy to search the other side of Dean's coat, the way Dean was sitting, but Sam tried anyway. Just a little -

Dean sucked in a gasp of air as his head swung upright, his folded leg untangling itself. Sam dropped the coat like a hot coal. He stepped back wit ha start and a gasp of his own, and after a second Dean's eyes landed on him, recognition relaxing his face. He let out a sigh of relief and rubbed away the sleep from his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and cobbled.

"Mmm, Sammy. What time is it?"

For a second, Sam could only gape, but it was clear he had no idea Sam was searching him. "Just - it's a few minutes before ten. You fell asleep."

Dean gave a weary glance towards John on the couch just as he offered another snore.

"Hey, where are your keys?" Dean may have woken up but Sam thought he could still salvage his plan. "I'll drive you home."

"Are you finally done with the dishes?" Dean asked instead. "I wanted a chance to catch up with my little brother."

Sam could swear he heard a clock ticking behind his eyes. "We can catch up in your truck. Where'd you put your keys?"

"They're…" Dean fell off his words, rubbing his face again. "They're in my boot."

Sam blinked. "What does that mean?"

"What?" Dean stared back with shot eyes. "I put them in my boot." He gestured towards his discarded boots with his chin, resting next to the door. Sure enough, reaching into the right boot Sam's hand closed around a cluster of keys.

"Hey, so, how've you been, man?" Dean's voice had the airy quality of a person who'd just woken up to take an important phone call. When he tried to stand he couldn't. A wild hand shot out and caught the fabric of Sam's shirt, righting himself. Sam didn't offer help other than that. For a long moment they stood there, Sam watching with a frown of disgust while Dean seemingly tried his hardest, but he couldn't help but stare. Like, a car accident, or the nature channel, when the lion catches the prey. And Dean was chuckling.

"Almost lost it there," he said.

"I noticed," Sam said. "Come on."

Dean pulled back. "No, no, I can do it, you don't have to bother. I do it all the time." Dean took back his hand and punctuated his claim with a light wobble. Sam didn't have a hard time believing the claim.

Dean made a lazy pass for the keys in Sam's hand, but Sam pulled back, dodging. A second reach, this time with a little mustard, but his aim went haywire. He punched the wall instead. Sam spun towards John while the echo died in the empty room. No change. Sam sighed in relief.

He grabbed Dean at the wrist, forcing his arm over his shoulder. Sam opened the door and hobbled them both into the darkness while Dean shook out his pained knuckles, hissing through his teeth.

—

Dean's leg was bouncing again in the passenger seat while Sam stared down the only red light in the entire town of Lyon. Almost in time with his brother, Sam tapped the steering wheel. His eyes kept flying to the clock in the radio. In a town like Lyon it was impossible to be longer than ten minutes away from anywhere you were going, yet somehow, at just passed 10, he'd been stalled at three stop signs, and now the stop light. Sam checked the time on his phone again.

"Sam, just go," Dean griped next to him.

"What?"

"We're the only car on the road in this entire town." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and glared out the window. "And you're worried about a red light."

"Why else would it be here, Dean, besides to stop at it?"

Dean sighed. He slid down under the seatbelt so he could rest into the seat, knees hitting the glove box. "Whatever, man. I'm just trying to get you to the places you're trying to be."

"I'm not in a rush to be anywhere." A lie plain as day. Sam swiped at his nose and looked out his own dark window.

"Not trying to get to Claudia's?" The teasing quality in Dean's voice took Sam a bit by surprise, if only because, while he was used to it from John, this was much less a mockery of the name itself and more a poke at Sam, which was too familiar. The kind of voice the doting parent would say to their kid if it were a TV show on one of the family-friendly networks.

Sam shrugged but didn't manage to cover up the damning parts, like the flush that came to his face. He felt his pulse quicken while Dean laughed quietly to himself. The light turned green and Sam hit the gas. Dean's head swayed from the force of it and a few moments of driving passed before either one spoke again.

"Claudia…" Dean drawled, giving the word a try. "Claudia."

"Careful."

"Dad doesn't like her," Dean said, not a question.

Sam's hand tightened on the wheel as he passed the post office, dark except for the lone flood light over the entrance, lighting it in the ghostly way Sam had always seen in these small towns. "Dad doesn't really get a say." Sam felt Dean turn to him then, and tucked a piece of hair reflexively behind his ear. "And why would he?"

After a second Dean gave an in amicable shrug and started bouncing his leg again. Sam wished he would stop that. It was making him anxious. "You just haven't told me about her yet, is all."

"When was I supposed to do that?"

Dean ran his tongue over his teeth, eyeing Sam, then tilted his head in concession. "Fair enough." He turned back to the road. "Besides, out of all of the things you could pick to shove up dad's ass, it's a hell of a choice, is all I mean."

"I'm not the one picking the fight."

Sober Dean was a handful enough. And although anyone could argue you were bound to meet his intoxicated version sooner or later, that didn't mean Sam had to like it. He was blunter with a drink in his veins, and usually he blamed it on that, too. But Sam had been drunk before, been around drunk people plenty, he knew it didn't change you, exactly. Just made certain parts harder to hide.

"No, but you didn't have to pick such a candy-ass…" He gestured vaguely towards his point. "Thing, to be so stubborn about. You go to school on time, drive the speed limit, stop at all the lights - I know you drink, at least sometimes, so I can't tell you to get wasted or anything. Dad probably wouldn't even care about that, though, so that's not a new idea."

"What are you getting at exactly?" Sam turned the corner without slowing down, Dean's bald tires shrieking louder than usual in the empty streets. Sam straightened out the wheel, and Dean straightened out himself.

"What I'm getting at is I haven't seen my little brother in…more than a year." The slight pause to do the math was a small breeze on the coals of Sam's temper. He obviously wasn't keeping as good track as Sam had been. Dean went on. "And he's probably graduating high school soon, he's got a girlfriend I've never met, and he's turned into a little bitch."

Dean was watching Sam for some kind of reaction, but he wasn't going to get one. Something new was happening. Or, not really new, but exactly what anyone would expect. It was true - he hadn't seen his brother for a while, over a year. Didn't really care to, and for all that Dean was apparently butthurt about it - Sam. Didn't. Care. He wasn't bothered if his deadbeat dad thought finishing high school with his class was useless, and don't get him started on college. Sam wasn't worried what his drunk brother thought of him having a girlfriend without his permission. The both of them would be out of his life in less than a month regardless of what they thought, or said, or did, and everything Dean was saying at him washed over his head and down his shoulders like nothing more than water off a duck's back. But damn if it that water still wasn't frustrating. Just a few more blocks to drive and Dean would be home; Sam wasn't worried about much else concerning him, if he was being honest.

"You know what you need?" Dean asked.

"What's that?"

"You know what you need?"

"What, I said."

"You need to unclench. Do you ever go out?"

Despite Dean's tone, Sam laughed to himself. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No, man, I do. I mean, just because we haven't seen each other in a while doesn't mean I don't know how to check in on you. All you do - " The words were choked in his throat with a quick hiccup. Dean pressed the back of his fist to his mouth, face strained. Sam butted up against his door while he watched in horror, but after a moment Dean brushed it off in a thumbs up that said, I'm fine. "All you do is go to school, go home, do your homework, sit around with your girlfriend."

"Shit on me all you want Dean, but you can't pretend you never did your homework."

"No, you're right, but that wasn't all I did. This is the time for fun, high school, before you're out on your own and don't have an excuse for it anymore."

In the darkness of the cab Sam clenched his jaw. No one had to tell him that; he knew he wasn't having fun. In a matter of fairness, Sam liked learning and discovering new things, but this was hardly the time for fun, when he had plans waiting on him to perform his best. Dean unhinged his jaw in a yawn, letting out an obnoxious noise because Dean apparently still didn't know how to move through the world without making a ruckus.

"I'll have fun when it's over," Sam offered. He pressed the brakes as they took another corner, sped up once more on the follow through. Almost there. "I need to do as well as I can."

Dean yawned behind the cover of his hand. "No, you know what you need?"

"To unclench, apparently."

"You need, like, to get a tattoo or something," he went on, "or get high. Steal a bike or something, I dunno. Or just get into a car and drive, no plan, no map."

Sam sighed. His frustration was making him breath heavier. Who was Dean to disappear for so long to come back like he owned the place? "I'm not doing that."

"Which one?"

"Any of them," he bit back. His top was blowing. Looking away from the road and at Dean, in his dirty jeans and sloppy, smudged shirt, Sam wondered how they could even be related. Not for the first time and not the last, Sam resented his brother. Resented the blood that pumped between them, the burden of sharing a last name, a history. Sam so badly wanted to shed those things but he couldn't do it sitting in his brother's truck or his father's apartment or their family's obsession. The problem wasn't Lyon itself - it had been one of the longest homes he'd known yet - but it definitely represented something bigger - the idea of settling. He blinked and for a moment saw himself in Dean's place, and his anger grew that much more at the prospect. If he stayed here for even one second longer than he had to, that was going to be him. Drunk and dirty and doing nothing but 'hunting'.

But, of course, Dean wasn't going to let him talk. "No, that's a perfect idea, you need a road trip. Somewhere far so we can drive for hours and hours."

Once more Sam sighed, scrubbing at his face with his palm so he could rub off the situation like a sticker. He didn't like Dean's we. "Our lives are nothing but road trips, I don't need another one."

"No, somewhere cool, some place we haven't gone to yet. Like…" Dean broke off, again. "For your birthday."

At that Sam frowned thoughtfully, the cab of the truck quiet for a moment. "You remember when my - "

Sam stopped his question in its tracks. Turning to look at his brother, Dean was asleep with his chin against his chest. He had his arms crossed over his stomach and one leg stretched out, and if Sam hadn't just been talking to him, he could have said Dean had been asleep the entire ride. Sam shook his head and turned back to the road, his face captured in a frown, his breath quick. Dean's fucked up fence finally came into view of their headlights - thank god.

Sam didn't bother slowing down when he pulled the truck to the side and into the gravel out front. Dean rocked next to him which ended in a hollow thunk when his head met the window. Sam was out the door before the engine finished shutting off.

With an arm over his shoulder, Sam guided a wobbling Dean through the crooked gate and up the cracking sidewalk to his front door, which was unlocked. Lyon wasn't that kind of town, where even your locks needed their own locks, but it was another straw on Sam's back, another bit of proof in his point. Passed the dark shape that was a couch, around the counter in the kitchen and through the door into the bedroom. Sam wasn't bothered with being gentle, though he had enough pride of character not to be an ass. Dean was like an old song all the way - mumbling that he was fine, didn't need help in his own house - but in the time it took Sam to ease him into the mattress that sat on the floor and slip off his boots, he was already asleep and silent. Sam stood for a bit to catch his breath, tossing the boots to the side where they fumbled to the floor.

The air in the room was still as death and the only thing to be heard were Dean's slow breaths into one of his pillows. Through the window, a stray beam of white moonlight fell across his bed and made Dean look like a completely different person, most closely to the person Sam liked to remember in his times of nostalgia. When he wasn't talking at you or trying to get your goat, Dean was almost tolerable. Sleep erased the creases of Dean's shit-eating smile and whatever it was he held in his shoulders, pride or something else, and although it had only really been a year since he'd seen his brother Dean looked…older. Not old, and maybe the word he was thinking of was different, but Sam became aware in the silence of the sleeping bedroom not for the last time that he was going to be completely different too, in just as much time. On a different half of the country. Would Dean call Sam different, the next time the universe conspired to bring them together?

Dean wanted him to have fun for once, but what he didn't know about Sam's plans for the night couldn't be held against him. Sam didn't want him to believe it was his advice that spurned Sam into going to this party, or any of the ones that came before it, which Dean knew nothing of, either. As quietly as he could, Sam took his leave and closed the front door behind him. Sam found the spare key under a rock near the door and engaged the lock before hiding it back where it came from.

No doubt Claudia was upset. Getting to the party now was going to take another hour, realistically, after he made it to her house and then to Clarksdale for the party itself, and as he walked back through Dean's gate Sam was wondering if it was worth it to even go anymore. Then something jingled in his pocket. Pulling it out, as they caught the yellow light of the street lamps, Sam realized he was holding Dean's keys, preoccupied enough with the drunk on his shoulder he forgot to drop them on the counter when he was leaving. Maybe his idea was going to work after all.

In a few seconds he was back in Dean's driver's seat, flipping the headlights back on, coaxing the whining truck off the curb and back onto the road.

—

Though Lyon proper was a fairly condensed town where Sam could get where he was going in a quick walk, there was a good sized rural community, because apparently the big city living of Lyon was still too much of a hassle for them. Either that, or, Sam thought as he eased the borrowed truck back below 60 miles an hour, they needed more space to build their massive houses.

Out in the hills of Coahoma county Sam thanked whoever was listening that no one in this town stayed up passed 9:30 PM. The roads were dark and quiet, until Sam sped along to break the silence. More than anything Sam was shocked the thing could go above 30 miles an hour, and even though the speed he'd been going was still 15 above the speed limit, there was no time for slowing down. He thought about calling Claudia to at least let her know he was on his way, knowing she would get anxious if she never heard from him, but thought better - he'd already wasted this much time taking care of Dean, and another stop in the road to make a phone call was more time than he was willing to sacrifice. He'd talk to her when he got there and could explain the whole thing. He took a turn in the road at 25, heard the bald tires squeak, and wondered if they were still going to talk about this 'thing' she mentioned earlier.

At this hour, Sam would never pull up in their driveway. Or at any hour, actually, where Sam hadn't gotten four different kinds of permission. Claudia's dad was one of the two lawyers in Lyon. Not a person whose property you wanted to trespass, so, in times like these, Sam would find a nice bush and wait. But not tonight; this called for the signal. He pulled up to the edge of their property line and slid out from his seatbelt, silent as a mouse though no one would be out to hear him. Peaking around the brush, he saw a lone yellow window. Sam clasped his hands around his mouth in the usual way and blew, fluttering one hand in the best Indian call he could, which Claudia always rolled her eyes at, because it wasn't that good in the first place.

Not a second after the whistle left his hands, a figure rushed out from around the bushes and darkness and grabbed Sam by the shirt sleeve; Sam's hand shot out like a dart and caught the figure's wrist as it began tugging Sam away, and stilled when he realized it was Claudia. He started to speak but she cut him off with a finger to her lips as she pulled him away, towards the truck.

"My dad's still awake," she whispered.

Dutifully Sam followed the few steps backwards towards the truck parked in the gravel. "But you wanted to talk - "

"Not here." They split at the hood and Claudia climbed through the passenger door, closing the door as quietly and quickly as she could move, while Sam was in and already starting the engine. As she buckled her belt, Claudia asked, "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

Sam tugged the gear shift out of Park. "I was driving?"

She let out a small sigh and flicked her hair away from her face. "I'm dating such a dweeb." Sam pulled back onto the road, purposefully leaving the headlights off until Claudia's house disappeared behind the bend of the road. Though, it might not even matter - even if they didn't see the headlights, there was no doubt they still heard the engine accelerating. After a moment, Sam saw Claudia relax into the seat and offered his hand in the middle. She took it while straightening out her seatbelt with her other hand.

"But I'm your dweeb," Sam said, tilting his head at her and offering a smile.

"Don't gross me out," Claudia said, looking away, but a smile was already cracking her facade.

"You don't think your dad heard, did you?"

"No, I don't think so, but it was like he knew I was trying to go out. He never talks to anyone after he comes home for dinner but tonight he was asking a thousand questions. If he was going to work so much I wish he would stay at his office, you know what I mean?" Sam didn't answer; he knew. "At least he wouldn't have to pretend he cared. Finally I told him I was going to bed, but I he could have heard me walk out the door. That's why I tried to call you - speaking of, let me see your phone. I'll delete my message for you."

Sam broke their clasped hands and strained back against the seat to reach into his jean pocket, but stilled - there was nothing there. He frowned, though he shouldn't be surprised.

"You lost it again, didn't you?" Her question was genuine but her tone was a teasing one. Sam shut his eyes and sighed, easing back into the seat and taking the steering wheel with both hands.

"I could've sworn it was in my pocket. I had it when I left the house. Or, I thought I did."

She laughed, shaking her head a little. "Didn't get it taken away again did you?" At Sam's flat expression she laughed a little more. "You're silly, Sammy."

They drove on in the night till the road came full circle at the stop sign Sam had turned at minutes before, but instead of turning the way he'd come, he went the other, passing the green sign letting him know Clarksdale was only 2 miles away. Dean's truck had an empty hole in the console where a radio would be, but they would be at the party in no time, with all the music they could ever want for the night. Sam was almost surprised at how well things were working out, till he remembered something.

He swallowed with a dry throat. "Did you want to talk now?" he asked, though his nerves wanted him to say the exact opposite. When she didn't answer, he turned to glance at her.

She was looking out the window, strands of her dark hair flying behind over her shoulders. To her credit, her voice sounded fine even through the rush of wind coming through the cab. "No." And for a moment, that was all she offered while relief streamed through Sam's limbs. Sam looked to the road, then back to her. Finally, she added, "It worked itself out." She turned then, mischief back in her eyes. If he hadn't just witnessed it, Sam wouldn't have seen the stress. "Were you scared?"

"Fuck yeah I was," he said honestly, "all day. I couldn't finish my homework or anything."

"Well, you're off the hook now. And we even have our own truck. Who's is this anyway?" She undid her belt with a click and sidled into the middle seat, layering herself against his side, leaning her head on his shoulder while he drove.

"My brother's," Sam offered, and left it at that.

"Ah, the mysterious brother." She reached a hand to a piece of Sam's hair and twirled it around her fingers. "Funny I still don't know what he looks like but I'm sitting in his car." From his shoulder he knew she was staring at him, and for the second time that night, Sam felt that someone was trying to get a reaction from him.

If he said anything, he'd reopen the argument he worked so hard to shovel dead in the ground, so he didn't. And Claudia must have felt it. "I know you didn't want to before, but since we have our own car now, I'll even let you drink. And I'll drive?"

A voice sprang up in Sam's mind. I know you drink, at least sometimes, so I'm not going to tell you to get wasted or anything. "No," he said right away. Then, in addendum at Claudia's considering frown, "I don't think I have the stomach for it tonight. But you can, I don't mind."

He remembered - "I turned in the last of my applications to Ms. Gonzalez last Friday, I forgot to tell you."

Claudia smiled. "That's good!"

Sam sat up excitedly. "Did you get yours in yet?"

The corners of her smile sagged, Sam saw. Claudia ran a hand through a piece of her hair to fix it. "I've got a few turned in, yeah."

"A few?" Claudia nodded. "Not your Stanford one yet?"

"No, not yet. It's such a huge application and I just…haven't had the time."

"I'll help you. You're cutting it really close, though, don't want you to miss out on California." Sam heckled Claudia in the ribs. He was only partly kidding.

"Or, you know, wherever. I always thought Boise sounded good, too."

Sam glanced at Claudia's face while she was busy looking the other way. A few more wordless moments passed while the wind spun around them and Sam fell unconsciously back into the words his brother had thrown at him. Dean's name calling was proof that somethings never changed, but… The path Sam knew he had to take, he shouldn't care what Dean said about him or what he thought of his actions. Definitely shouldn't be bothered by what a person in Dean's shoes thought of anything, to be frank. But these words rested strangely in his mind, coming back to him in regurgitated bits and pieces. Before you're out on your own and don't have the excuse for it anymore. He was wrong. Getting out was going to be the beginning of everything.

An odd quiet reached Sam's senses; he realized then that Claudia had said something. She had sat up, looking at him, or better - watching him.

"What'd you say?"

"Your face," she answered. "You looked weird for a second."

Sam didn't know what to say, so he grabbed at the excuse to look back at the road and leaned on the gas pedal instead.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Friday, April 26th, 2002

After entering Clarksdale and finding Becca's house, Claudia pointing the way, Sam had to park the truck in the gravel along the edge of the road nearly two houses down. Sam opened the door for Claudia and helped her out. Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it as they joined the few stragglers still walking along the road. Sam had never been to a party exactly - he wasn't counting booze snuck into their bedrooms - and what struck him first wasn't the sounds or the sights, but instead how much like walking into a normal school day it felt. Parking was hard to find; people blocked every direction you tried to walk; no on really talked to each other.

Inside the air was a sticky, almost sweet smelling in a way that Sam didn't really appreciate. Not to mention the swell of bodies added to the warm night. The entryway and bottom floor of Becca's house were standing room only, from what Sam could see over everyone's heads, but he didn't see anyone worth talking to. As he searched he came to realize he was bouncing his leg, remembered Dean's, then stopped himself. It was in times like these where Sam had to face the fact that Claudia was the one with all friends, that this wasn't necessarily his scene. He held tightly to her hand so she wouldn't get torn away from him, but after a moment of scanning the crowd, that didn't mean anything. She was out of his hand and carving a tunnel through the crowd towards a room on the right. Calling after her yielded a few stares from those around him, stern expressions as if they were whispering themselves, but Claudia went on anyway, if she heard him in the first place. Sam swore to himself and followed her, before the syrupy crowd could fill in the trench she'd made.

Over the top of the milling crowd Sam found Claudia already on the other side of this new room talking to a girl in a short black skirt and a sleeveless top, with kinky blonde hair and a red cup in her hands that matched the shade of the blush on her cheeks. Becca's smile was all teeth as she peered into her cup, took a deep drink, then looked back to Claudia. This was one difference Sam could see so far, between the parties and school. Becca never would have done that in school, where she was too self-conscious of her gummy smile. Pretty or not she always smiled down into her t-shirt or looked in the other direction. Looking around, that seemed to be the case for everyone, some moving differently than they would have in school, other's adopting a sort of calmness he wouldn't expect. Sam wondered at that. Would he find a new side of himself tonight as well?

Contrarily, he also found that, in a similar way to the halls of their school, a well-placed elbow parted the sea of people just as well as Moses' staff. Sam couldn't tell what Becca and Claudia were talking about but smirked anyway when Becca started shoving a second red cup into the hands of his very reluctant girlfriend, but she finally accepted the cup and took a small sip. Reaching an arm over his head, Sam waved at the pair, then pointed at Claudia with a confused look on his face once he had their attention, earning one drunkenly excited wave from Becca and one sheepish smile from Claudia.

Sam was beginning to get the impression that the night was going to last longer than he'd anticipated.

—

Sam swam through the current of people, elbows out for protection. In his hands were two red cups, but these were filled with plain water. Another song that he didn't know was playing, and after some tense jostling he finally broke through the crowd and into the living room, finding Claudia right where she promised she would stay. Sam took long strides to the couch, afraid of getting trapped again, and passed her a cup. She took it with a sweet smile and brought in her legs to free the cushion she'd been saving. He sat, smiled back, and took a drink from his own cup. Warm water from the tap, thick-feeling in his mouth as he swallowed.

Someone had pushed the couch back against the wall, opening the room to, in Sam's horror, fit more people. It fit in between two tall bookshelves which became a set of blinders to the rest of the room, gifting Sam and Claudia the perfect cave to watch everyone, but as he settled into the couch Sam had to admit, his head wasn't here on the party or the people. Come sooner - if you can. I need to talk to you about something. All day Sam had been a scratched record, replaying the words again and again. Up until the very last moments, even, the prospect of that conversation had been his stressor, more so then Dean sitting in his living room or avoiding the three days of dishes had ever been. And not because he had anything to fear, he knew that now, but because something had been wrong. He turned and glanced at Claudia, who was talking to someone standing at her shoulder by the side of the couch, gesturing with her cup, a slight reflection of the lights coming off her skin. It was hot in there, or maybe it was just Sam. Claudia was having a good time, but he was feeling a little had, the more she talked. But there was no way to talk about it in here.

"I need to get some air," Sam said finally, pushing up from the cushions.

Claudia looked up at him, the dregs of her smile still on her face, but she searched for something. When she didn't see it - or did - she asked, "You alright?"

"Yeah, but, come with me." Sam tilted his head towards the back door, but made a quick glance to Claudia's friend, who was watching both of them interestedly now from the top of his cup. Sam knew him from her Civics period in the times he would walk her to class. Every place is a stage. "It's just a little hot in here."

"I told Michael I'd tell him about fifth period, though, and he's leaving soon." She looked at Sam then back to Michael, unsure.

Sam's throat constricted. "Fine, come meet me when you're done."

Walking through the crowd again, he realized how tired he'd become. All his worrying he'd done, then Dean, his dad, had all taken his energy, and the gaps in the crowd around him were only feeling tighter and tighter. He broke into a short, dark hall, and once again out through the door at the end where he took a deep breath of the night air and could feel his heart pounding.

It wasn't entirely the cool drink of water he was hoping for. Becca's house had large yards, which would have meant a lot of places for privacy, but those private places were full. Someone on the side was getting sick in the bushes, a couple near the back fence was not-very-quietly making out, while a group had encircled a fire pit at the center. Unlit, Sam noticed, but with cans in their hands as they laughed loudly. No better place than where your feet are; Sam crossed his legs underneath him and sat right there on the concrete steps, the closed door at his back. He shut his eyes and leaned back against the house. This, of all things, was relaxing. The music through the walls was a dim, lax murmur that did more to lull him than work him up. And in that relaxation, Sam's heart finally began to slow.

Any longer, though, and his tiredness would put him to sleep where he sat. Some of the people in the yard had left and come back, new people came out, then left again. Without his phone Sam had no way to measure the time besides the moon and whoever came through the door, but none of them were Claudia. He sat up, cracking his eyes open. Fifth period wasn't so exciting that Michael had to spend half an hour listening to it. Sam unfolded him legs and let himself back in the house.

Somebody who wasn't Claudia or Michael now sat at the couch, from what he could see of the living room. The crowd had thinned slightly even within the short time he'd stepped out, which Sam appreciated, but he still couldn't see any sign of her, and too in the dining room, where he caught Becca again, who hadn't seen Claudia since they'd first walked in. There was no reason he could think of why she would be upstairs, though that didn't mean she wasn't, so Sam held onto the wooden banister and went up, past the columns of cheesy family photos, and found a total of four doors. It was measurably quieter up there but it seemed like people knew that already; in each of the three bedrooms and the one bathroom Sam had found people, but none of them Claudia, and none of them nearly as welcoming to his bursting through the door as she would have been. In a rush, Sam went back the way he'd come, a little pinker in the cheeks.

He stood back in the entry way of the house, feeling a little stupid and a lot more confused. He cursed himself again. If he'd had his phone he could have called her. In a huff he decided to check the front yard. It was the only place she could possibly be, and the one he hadn't checked yet.

Only a few steps from the front door a figure sped from dining room, colliding against Sam's shoulder before he had the chance to dodge, knocking him sideways while both gripped each other to catch their balance. Sam tried seeing the person's face but he was shorter and pointedly looking the other direction. The man murmured a deep 'sorry' and was gone, around the stairs and towards the back door with an unbuttoned overshirt billowing behind him like a cape. It all happened in a second. Sam straightened out his sleeves as he watched him cut a hard left before the door, disappearing into a room Sam didn't know was there. Sam stood, watching after him for a moment, at the empty air where he'd been, caught in the idea that the guy had looked somehow familiar but that he couldn't place him from anyone he knew at school, but nonetheless more interested on this new room he had rushed into. Sam changed his course and followed in the man's path.

"Get a-way from me, Jackson!" A shout, in a voice Sam was very familiar with, cut over the noise of the loud music and above the heads of the people. In a kind of animal collective, Sam and everyone around him silenced and turned, looking to the living room, where Sam could finally see into now that everyone was still. There, he could see - Claudia, an arm's length away from the glaring yellow jersey of Jackson McClaughlin, and Sam's jaw tightened. He had no idea how he'd missed him before; the color of his jersey was about as loud as his mouth.

A handful of quick strides carried Sam through the frozen crowd and in the space between Claudia and Jackson. Sam stared him dead in the eye, the only person in the Clarksdale high school who Sam never had to look down to, at least physically. A person wouldn't be wrong if they described Jackson as handsome but Sam had always thought Jackson was a little to the side of average, at odds with the general opinion, wherein, to their credit, the quality of the guys in their school left Jackson very high at the top. He was tall, yes, and was fit from the sports he did, but never looked too far off from a rat trying to eat its own chin; a longer face, dopey eyes, and an overbite, which for the sake of honesty was only slight, and had gotten better when the braces came off. But maybe he really did look like a rat, or maybe he didn't - Sam hated Jackson more for the stories he'd heard of how he treated Claudia while they were still dating than any kind of animal he could compare his looks to. Even as Sam stood before him, Jackson had a twist in his mouth that said he was having all the fun in the world terrorizing everyone.

A hand came out from the side and gripped the collar of Sam's shirt in a fist, yanking. He noticed then that Jackson wasn't the only yellow jersey standing there. While some of Jackson's teammates were wearing plain street clothes he still had a small collection of his merry band of yellow-jerseyed fuck-heads with him. And this one had Sam by the shirt, a black haired bull Sam sat a few rows ahead of in Ceramics, but the time for these details had passed. The fight had entered Sam's blood the second he'd heard Claudia shout; one hand came to the guy's elbow, and the other to his chest, and with a solid push-pull combination Sam was free of his grip and the dumb ox was tripping over the bystanders behind him.

Jackson put out a large hand and braced his friend's fall without looking away from Sam, or breaking his shit-eater grin. "Careful, mister tough guy. Look who's here, guys," Jackson said to the crowd, who were definitely listening now. Sam was breathing hard through his nose. He looked from one yellow jersey to the other. "It's the cuck."

"Not from what I've heard," Sam answered. "That's preaching to the choir a little bit, don't you think, mister likes-to-watch?"

Jackson's joyed expression deflated into a scowl, eyes narrowing at Sam. A bit of surprised reactions were low in the crowd, some turning to their friends to see if they had heard right. Jackson was close enough to count each other's eyebrow hairs and Sam wanted to take about one hundred steps backwards, and even if Jackson would let him, the rest of the yellow jerseys would never let him through. Even still, Sam gently pushed a hand behind him, against Claudia. "Go to the car, we're out of here," but she didn't budge.

"Don't touch me again, you understand me, Jackson?" Sam knew this as her yelling voice, that she kept in her bag for the games when she was a cheerleader.

"Why are you touching her?" Sam asked. His blood was speeding. He could hit Jackson - he would hit Jackson.

"I know I left it alone when you guys got together, but I think it's time to teach you to mind your own fucking business." A heavy moment fell between the two of them and the crowd stayed silent, the pronouncement of this threat plainly understood by every person in the room. Sam stayed flexed and counted the times his heartbeat clamored in his ears, but Jackson never moved. Or, so anyone else would think. While the crowd was busy watching Sam, he was watching Jackson; he saw the small bounce of his legs and the slight twitches in his feet, the veins in his neck when they flexed, like a cat when it calibrated its pounce. And that told Sam what he needed to know about how Jackson fought.

And, it was why Sam was ready for the first swing. Jackson followed through with one of the jerks in his leg, and stepped into a swing that flew like a knife through the air over Sam, who had ducked the moment Jackson shifted too much of his weight to go back. Not before pushing Claudia backwards, though, so the only thing Jackson came in contact with was his own ego. Sam hit Jackson in his exposed gut with two quick upper-punches - neither hard enough to wind but not so limp-wristed to be ignored.

Jackson staggered back, shock finally showing on his once stoney expression, and Sam was already back, hopping on bouncy ankles with his fists at his waist, keeping his eyes on Jackson the entire time. Recovering, Jackson slammed a foot into the carpet and carried his weight through into a second punch, this time from the other side, but Sam saw that one coming too. After dodging he caught Jackson's forearm in a hard grip and pulled, stepping aside at the same time. Jackson came off his already compromised center of gravity and crashed into the carpet face first.

Another charge to Sam's side that got sidestepped. He surprised Sam by turning quick and getting him around the waist, but after Sam's knee quickly met Jackson's chest, he was free. But Jackson was coming back fast. Sam met him in the middle with a fist to his jaw, where he felt Jackson's teeth crack against each other through his knuckles. It couldn't be said that Jackson was being subtle - or smart, which no one ever said. He was mad, and that's how a person makes mistakes.

Whereas Sam, who was doing so little work, he was breathing steadier than he had been at the start. The crowd was hot with this modern-day version of bloodlust, but Sam's vision narrowed so all he could see was Jackson and every hint his body was giving - how he was going to swing, which direction, and with how much weight behind it. The problem was, Jackson was fighting the same way he played football, not only in form but also in ability, and that was, in Sam's opinion, not well. Though it wasn't exactly a problem; Sam was winning.

Until a split second later, when Claudia's voice finally found his brain and he turned to her, at the same moment something hard found his forehead, square in the brow. He was sent down to the carpet, struggling to get a solid arm beneath him while the room moved around him. He couldn't hear Claudia shouting anymore, because he couldn't hear anything; he had the sudden sense of being underwater, where he heard everything only once it passed through the thousands of pounds of pressure. He cracked his eyes open just in time to see the looming figure reach a hand to him and grab him by the shirt collar again while he forced his vision to come back online. One of Jackson's goons not wearing a jersey, and if Sam could just get control of his legs -

Like a phantom, a blur crossed Sam's vision and he was released, dropped those few inches back to the ground, but he found finally that he could bring his legs back underneath him. While Sam tried to stand he saw the dark figure was coming back to his feet as well, coming off Sam's attacker and turning to offer a hand. Sam took it. Then looked at its owner's face.

Dean was breathing hard, hair a little mussed but no worse for wear. As he pulled Sam up from the floor he jerked his head to the side, mouth pinched, and Sam looked - Jackson was still on the floor but he was coming to, though in a completely different spot than Sam had left him, strewn among two of his buddies.

"Can't take you anywhere," said Dean.

"Son of a bitch!" Jackson made it onto one wobbly knee with his hand to his head. When he pulled it away they both saw the glossy red that covered his palm his palm, then the streak running down the side of his face. "You're fucking dead!"

For the third time that night Sam was being gripped by the collar to be torn from the room. He managed to catch his feet as the people passed or he passed the people, one or the other, catching Dean's sleeve and pulling free of his grip so he could walk for himself, but they were stopped short. The crowd that gathered to watch was a wall blocking the front door, five, six, seven people thick, and when Dean looked behind, his eyes grew wide.

"Backdoor," he ordered.

But that was no good either. Every person inside the house was now in this one room, some even wrapping around the corner and up the staircase. In the few seconds' that passed, their next move, in the end, was decided for them. Claudia leaned over the railing of the second floor and shouted, "Up here!"

Neither questioned it. Dean gripped Sam by the crook of his arm and shoved him ahead, pounding up the stairs after him. Everyone on the stairs moved like a wave, sliding to hug the railing while first Sam stormed up the stairs two at a time, then Dean. Claudia was half out of the bathroom herself, waving them over from down the hall, pulling them inside as they passed. Sam met the opposite wall in the dark and caught himself, Dean coming in hot right after, but saving himself, too. Sam heard the door slam shut behind them and they were plunged into darkness till the moment passed and Claudia flipped the light. She had a grim look on her face under the white light as she turned the lock on the handle and backed up against the door, breathing hard. Dean was resting against his own knees while Sam pulled his hair away from his face, now sticky from blood in some places, beginning to clot in others. The source of the pounding in his head was screaming now, and a fresh rivulet of red escaped and ran passed the corner of his eye.

But he wasn't concerned with that, just yet.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing here? And why aren't you drunk?"

To his own ears he knew the question was absurd, but he felt it had to be asked. Dean stood up and threw out a quick laugh, joining his hands on the crown of his head to take deeper breaths. "Pretty good trick, huh?"

"What do you mean trick? I carried you in your house myself. You could barely walk."

He gave an easy shrug. "You get good at faking that kind of stuff, otherwise you'll get liver disease, living with dad. You'll figure it out, too." Dean shoved a hand in his jeans pocket and pulled something out. He lower-hand tossed it to Sam, though he was only a few feet away.

His phone - Sam's 'forgotten' phone - fell in his hand, the display flashing the time when he opened it in disbelief. Sam looked at Dean. Dean winked back. "Found it on my doormat."

None of this was adding up in his confused head, but he was aware enough to know that this wasn't the issue at the moment. Sam asked, "Who hit me?"

"Short kid," Dean answered, measuring the height with a hand to his own shoulders, "with freckles and a weird eye."

"Raymond." Claudia supplied the name as she brought her hands to Sam's head, eliciting a wince when her thumbs came too close to his wound. Her face tensed as though she was the one in pain, eyes watery and large. "Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry."

"It's that fuckhead's fault," Sam said. Claudia turned to the toilet and started ripping half the roll of paper off the tube. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

She tried to press the wad of paper to Sam's head. The door handle started to rattle, and everyone jumped, then a something hard rammed in to the other side, and they jumped again. Claudia brought her hand to her chest and gasped, the wad of toilet paper forgotten. A second pound, harder, and Sam thought he'd just heard the tell-tale splinter noises of a breaking door.

"We're trapped."

Sam heard a noise like scraping metal and turned. He found Dean at the shower pulling the curtain open. Dean turned to meet Sam's eye, jerking his head towards the shower. For a moment Sam stopped to wonder about the logistics, but thought better then to look a gift horse in the mouth - inside the shower was a window inset within the tile, which looked…just wide enough for a person to slip through. Couldn't say what was beyond or what it looked out towards. "Only one thing for it," Dean said, who stepped inside the shower and slid the window open.

Another body slammed against the door with an even nastier crack than before. Sam was beginning to hear voices, too, shouting and calling at each other, or at them, or whoever. He had a second to wonder what Becca's parents would think of their house getting trashed, before he felt an absence at his side and noticed Claudia had stepped into the shower, too. When Sam looked back to Dean he was punching hand into the screen, the poor thing popping free of the frame and shooting into the night.

"I'll go first," Dean said, nodding to Sam, but didn't wait for confirmation. There was nothing to grab thanks to the tile but Dean still managed; a small hop, one leg before the other, and suddenly Dean was halfway in the bathroom and hanging halfway over who knew what. He stopped.

With one hand on the sill so he didn't fall, Dean extended the other and his charming smile towards Claudia. "I'm Dean, little Sammy's older brother."

Her face looked horrified, but she took his hand anyway. They shook, then Dean slipped out the window in a flash.

A soundless second passed, Sam and Claudia staring at each other's wide eyes expectantly. Then he heard a thud that was Dean landing, and the grunt that told them it was a long way down. Claudia was wincing. There was a bit of rustling that sounded like wind in the trees, then silence.

"Sammy!" Dean whisper-shouted from the ground like a cat's hiss. "Let down your hair!"

"For fuck's sake," Sam murmured. He climbed over the lip of the shower and put his head out the window, wincing himself when his head filled with a painful pressure. The stray light coming through the windows of the house gave Dean a faint outline, but Sam could see, and although it was only one story, for some reason it looked a lot farther in the nighttime. Dean gestured to the house with a finger for Sam to see a shadow in the bushes, like a dent in a car, where Dean had fallen and crawled out.

Through his hands cupped around his mouth, Dean hissed, "I'll catch you!"

Sam stalled, and as though in punctuation, the bathroom door crashed again. A crack split the wood wide enough to let in the cacophonous sound of the hallway, Becca's shrill voice promising Jackson every painful form of torture in the book. That answered Sam's hesitation.

Sam took Claudia's hand. "You go first. If they get in here then at least you'll be out there."

She nodded and grabbed the tiled sill of the window. Sam helped guide her with the other while she talked to herself.

"All I wanted to do was have some fun before finals. Dance with my boyfriend and maybe make out a little. But no, in comes Jackson…oh, God."

In a quick second she had both legs out the window, the same way Dean had done it, but wasn't letting go of Sam's hand, or the counter.

Dean called again from the yard and Claudia screwed her eyes closed, groaning through clenched teeth. Just when Sam thought he'd have to talk her into it, he felt her hand get tighter, but not in fear - a three-two-one later and Claudia slipped backwards through the window. For a moment Sam couldn't help but stare at the empty window in shock, and it seemed to dawn on him at that moment that this was really how his night was going, and that he was next to jump out of a window to avoid the jerseys. He leaned back out the window once more and saw Claudia in Dean's arms, lowering her to the ground, and felt drunk though he'd had nothing but water. A glance over his shoulder - through the crack in the door he could swear he made actual eye contact with someone. Sam had both legs through the window before he could stall any longer. Then he was dropping.

Some parts of him met hard with some parts of someone else but it was a tangle of limbs that he couldn't decipher till he felt the ground under his feet again, standing on the black lawn, turning to give Dean a hand out of the bushes.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean said. He was using Sam's helping hand to pull himself up, groaning and holding his other hand against his lower back. "When did you get so heavy?"

Sam spared a glance up at the window. A laugh bubbled up, not a funny laugh or an angry laugh, but laugh like whoa. Claudia grabbed his hand and started pulling.

"The truck's this way," Sam said, following after her, Dean following them both. The stray sounds that sounded largely like a door caving in followed them as they ran.

The front yard had been surprisingly empty but anyone living Sam's and Dean's life would know that luck doesn't last forever. It turned out that although they'd just dropped from a second story window with nothing broken, they never had any in the first place.

Sam thought it was his heart in his ears until they reached the edge of Becca's yard, and he realized it was coming from outside of him. He crept up to the edge of the yard ahead of Claudia and Dean, realizing the sound was too metallic, too…solid, strangely, to be his heartbeat. It had an echo, and unless he was hearing Claudia's and Dean's, that couldn't be it. He fell into a crouch and eased his head around the edge of the undergrowth.

He couldn't readily tell what was happening, only that the source of the sound and where he'd parked Dean's truck had something in common, until a flash of light from down the road caught his eye. No, not light - a yellow jersey, reflecting a stray glint and betraying their spot, their numbers. A few of them circling where Sam parked, and that strange noise.

Suddenly Dean rushed up to Sam's side, suspended, pausing to listen. "That sounds…" He disappeared around the edge.

Sam followed, but not before turning and taking Claudia's hand to pull her along. In the end they didn't have to go far; they met up with Dean where he crouched just three cars down, and Sam could see Dean nearly vibrating with anger. Another yellow jersey had appeared around the back of the truck, and Sam learned what the crashing noises were a split second before the bat collided with Dean's hood. He raised the bat and the tip glinted off someone's porch light, all to slam down again, again, again. It was no wonder Sam thought it was his own heartbeat. It was almost rhythmic. They sat there for a moment, watching, Dean's mouth almost inside-out from a scowl, Claudia's own frown hidden behind her hand. He overheard a faint laugh over the echo of the most recent hit.

A hand found Sam's shoulder and he jumped. Claudia came up between him and Dean. "I think we need to get out of here."

That seemed to break Dean's reverie. "These little shits are wrecking my truck." Even in a whisper, Dean sounded indignant. All at once the voices grew louder, closer; Sam could actually make a few of them out breaking away from the truck, walking towards them.

"I don't think we have a choice here, Dean."

Dean stared Sam in the eye, not in a challenge. It was a thinking stare. Finally, Dean closed his eyes and sighed. "Fine."

A feeling akin to guilt was worming its way into Sam's gut. He hadn't felt any taking Dean's truck when he thought he was drunk, but he was beginning to feel it now. "I'm sorry, Dean - "

"I said fine," Dean interrupted. "Let's go before I snap their necks."

He was the first to turn away from the encroaching voices, a close second being Claudia. She made it a car away when she realized Sam wasn't following. "Sam," she hissed.

He'd been stuck on his knees watching Dean's overshirt billow after him as he stalked down the road. Dean had been acting before, that he was drunk, and now he was mad. Sam's heart pumped anger through his limbs in a hard pulse, the guilt of moments before evaporated into the air. He met Claudia fast, kept walking. They worked to catch up to the caped wonder, and they all just kept walking.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Saturday, April 27th, 2002

His alarm was ringing. On a Saturday. At 6 AM, because he didn't turn it off the night before when he got in. Or, earlier that morning. What time did he get home, again?

As Sam slipped more and more into the waking world he realized he was still in his jeans and his t-shirt, wrapped in the blanket tighter than a mummy. He tried moving his feet. At least he'd remembered to take his shoes off. With a heavy hand he slapped the alarm, blearily found the power switch, and slid it OFF with a satisfying click. Once again he closed his burning eyes and let his hand slide off the nightstand.

But when he tried to burry his face in the pillow, another fact of the night reasserted itself, and did so with a shout - there was a thick layer of the gauze taped to Sam's forehead, like a billiard ball against his skull. He came off the pillow with a hiss and put a soft finger to the feel the tape that wrinkled against his skin. Not the first time, though each time you hope it's your last. You're bound to get cracked a good one eventually in his family, but Sam's heart pumped out more embarrassment with this one. It was one thing to get caught in the head by a vampire or an angry ghost - things that were almost created to overpower you - but this had been given to him by Raymond, and Jackson, by proxy.

Well, he was awake now, and he needed the toilet. Sam pulled himself out from the blanket and took careful steps towards the bathroom, hanging his head at the neck to stop the throbbing, like a hangover.

Sam had been given the short end of the bathroom straw when it came to their apartment, given that the only shower in the place was in John's bathroom, downstairs. But until then, this one was all his, and for the last year he hadn't had to fight over it once. He flipped the switch and was taken aback by his reflection. Forgetting his hair, which in some places was still solid with blood, there were the circles under his eyes, a washed purple against the rest of his skin, and his eyes, which were growing more bloodshot the longer he forced them open. Sam winced and leaned closer to the mirror, where he slid a finger nail under the tape that secured the gauze, and pulled. The cut was a nasty red crack over his eyebrow. The dark clotted blood was like a weed pushing through the sidewalk. Sam turned this way, then that, getting the light on different sides and getting angrier with each pass. Dean had done his best to clean it up, but it had taken them so long to walk home that by the time they could do anything more than Claudia's wadded toilet paper, it was dirty, and already clotted shut. It was going to scar, right underneath his left eyebrow. And Sam wanted to kill every yellow-jerseyed bastard in the school.

Sam let out his breath fast, angry. And he had been at the time, too, when Dean was crowding in with handfuls of wet paper towels and their first-aid kid from under the sink. Angry with everyone, to be honest, even though they had nothing to do with this. John, for leaving them to rot so many times while he drank and hunted and moved them from town to town every other month. At the thing that murdered their mother, still out there somewhere, rolling around in a gutter probably. And these idiotic high school politics didn't skip the list. Dean had tried to coax them from Sam while he was working on his forehead, wondering what Jackson had done or why, but it wasn't Dean's place to know any of that, wasn't his room to occupy. He didn't belong to Sam's life any more than he belonged to Dean's now, so Sam left the answers vague and cheap, till he just quit answering altogether, and when Dean was done, that was that.

Still, something made Sam walk out of the bathroom to stand in front of the first door, what was now the spare bedroom. Mostly this room stayed empty, and if a person went inside on a normal day all they would find was a futon and a lamp. If you went inside on a not-normal day, sometimes a stranger would be sleeping on that futon, one of John's hunter friends was in town and needed a place to sleep as they passed through. And sometimes…

He turned the knob slowly, hearing the springs inside twing and give under his hand in the quiet morning. A bar of light from the hallway slipped through the door and fell over the futon, which told Sam this was a normal day, and it was empty.

So. Dean had gone home. He stared into the room for a moment thinking something might reveal itself to him if he stayed, but he eased the door closed again when it didn't.

When the math was done Sam knew he'd only been asleep for two hours. At any time John would be awake, and the prospect of his reaction to the gauze on Sam's head left him feeling every bit of his exhaustion again. He left the empty hall with its empty room and climbed back into bed to sleep till the day that things would be a easier. He dreamed he was standing at a cracked door, eyes peering through and staring straight at him, though every time he pulled it open nothing was on the other side, but another door. One with a crack in it, crazed eyes latching onto him like fishing hooks.

—

Sam woke again an hour later, and he would have cried in tiredness if this time John hadn't been his alarm clock. It came as a stiff knock on his door, then again a heartbeat later with a "Sam," in John's 'wake up for school' voice he liked using when he wanted to be a father.

"I know you're up, boy. Come down for food. I got us breakfast."

Steaming white to-go boxes sat on the card table dining room table, filling the kitchen till it smelled just like every diner they'd ever set foot in. John was working to separate the paper plates and unwrap plastic utensils the restaurant had given him when Sam stepped off the stairs, and for all that Sam's stomach was empty, the thought of putting the greasy food in his mouth made his head pound.

He opted for the chair to John's left rather than one across from him. If he could keep his head down and his answers polite, maybe use his hair to obscure the bandage, he could go the day without John realizing Sam had gotten hurt, and, since for all John knew Sam had been at Claudia's, the more lies he stacked on top of each the trickier things would become. John stopped and eyed Sam curiously while he scooted himself in, but handed Sam a fork and spoon without comment.

They ate the way they usually did since Dean moved out, which was to say, in near silence. Which Sam was content with. He switched his brain to autopilot not only to pass the time faster, but to better ignore the food he was putting in his mouth.

John spoke suddenly around a mouthful of something. "Your birthday's coming up, Sammy."

Didn't he know it. He mhmed, biting into a forkful of food.

"Want anything special?"

Sam came back to focus. It was strange he was actually being asked, instead of suffering through another assumption of a knife or a gun. "You mean I get to pick this year?"

"You get to pick every year." Not true, Sam thought. "Not careful though and I'll say fuck it and get you a hair brush." He took another bite off his plastic fork.

They fell into another silence.

"No school this week, right?"

Sam nodded, "I worked ahead farther than I thought, I guess, so the last few assignments are done."

John spread his hands in a little bit of friendly excitement, smiling at Sam. "So you're basically a graduate now, what are we waiting for?"

We, like they were in this together. No, not together to get Sam a diploma, just together when it came time to sell the couches again and pick another town to ruin. Someone to hold the map for him.

"I'm waiting for the tenth," Sam answered. "The assignments may be done, but I still have finals. And I still technically have to go to class, which, I don't know. Is a little annoying. I'll just get to sleep on my desk till the tests come."

"We could go somewhere for your birthday, then."

Sam almost looked at him full on, to see if he was kidding, but stopped last second, remembering his bandage.

"Yeah?" he asked tentatively.

"Yeah, I was thinking somewhere west."

Sam frowned slightly. "What's west?"

John was finished with the last of his plate, folding the paper in half and sliding it in the styrofoam box. As he closed the tab and wiped his mouth, he answered. "Got a call from Bobbie, he said there's something in Salt Lake getting a body count you would not believe. They're having a hard time tracking the thing down, whatever it is."

"Utah?" He'd worked ahead of his classes because his councilor promised he could use the time for his college entrance papers and his last few scholarship essays, not to be someone's Pocahontas across Utah. Sam could practically see the desert through the car windows, listening to John's music because he wasn't allowed to touch the radio. Sam's shoulders started to tense.

"We won't get back in time, I'll miss my tests."

"It's killing people, Sam," John said sternly. "You'll take the make up tests during the summer and test out for your GED." He didn't even have the nerve to look sorry, and Sam wasn't sure which he was madder at - that John didn't care, or that he didn't even pretend to care. Just like the takeout on the table - nothing new.

"These can't be made up, dad, if I don't take them I don't graduate." And if I don't graduate, I can't leave. "Then what?"

"Then you watch your attitude. Before I watch it for you." He stopped and stared at Sam to drive it home. "I'm going whether or not you want to, and I'm not leaving you alone. So that doesn't give you much choice."

Sam swallowed. "So even though it's my birthday, I have no say? What happened to, 'you get to pick every year'?"

"Well, I'm your father, no matter how many times you roll your eyes at me. I put that food in your mouth. Try being grateful for the things you get. People out there are dying." John stood from the chair and collected the containers, leaving Sam's.

"I think I want a car instead."

John stalled for a second. "And what on earth do you want with a car?"

To run you over, he thought. Drive away from the body. "I'm almost nineteen and I don't even have a bike."

John threw the forks in the sink and left the containers next to the trash. Sam watched him instead of keeping his head low like he knew he should. Maybe some of the courage Sam had felt at the party was still with him; he wasn't quite ready to stop.

"Dean had a car when he was my age."

John leaned backwards against the counter and braced himself with both arms. "Dean also never lied to me so he could go to parties."

Everything running through Sam's head stopped, frozen just as the blood in his veins. A moment passed in a heated stare, John willing Sam to blink first. He did.

"I heard about it at the diner. Want a car so bad? I can't even trust you on your feet, you think I'm gonna give you a car? I know - you were with Claudia all night and swear nothing happened, you just fell somewhere." John smirked knowingly and pointed to Sam's face, or more accurately, the place his bandage would be. "Yeah, I can see you trying to hide it. I would have expected this from your brother, but it's the last thing I'd expect from you."

Something in his veins got a little hotter at that. Maybe it wasn't power, just some fight. You didn't have to be strong to fight back. Despite himself Sam frowned, and he felt his brow sting under the gauze.

"Dean doesn't talk back because he's so far up your ass he couldn't hear you in the first place. But I don't see him here, do I?"

Nothing moved. Not even the sound of Sam's voice echoed off the bare walls. John's face was stone. But Sam could see it - little by little John's eyes got harder, wider, and every breath grew harder.

John loomed over Sam in an instant, hand open and ready to meet Sam's face. But he didn't flinch. The life running through him made his head clear and he knew he wanted to look John straight in the eye until the moment he couldn't anymore.

John's heart had burned on the ceiling 17 years ago and he hadn't stopped since. But he stopped here. What should have been a slap came down as a pointed finger, pushing aside the shade of hair hiding Sam's face.

His voice was neutral. "Who did that you to?"

"I did," Sam lied, voice intentionally small. "I just, fell."

John didn't nod, but he didn't frown either. He studied the bandage for a moment more, moving his hair farther to see at the angle. When next he spoke, he dropped Sam's hair, and his voice was smooth again. "I want something to be made very clear. I don't want you around Claudia again. Not when things like this happen to you."

He looked in Sam's eyes but he was determined not to show anything. Finally John stepped back, opened the fridge and pulled out a blue can, but by the time John could pull the tab Sam was out of his chair, up the stairs, and crossing the threshold to his room. In a matter of a few moments Sam had a shoe on each foot and was unplugging his phone from the wall, tucking it in his pocket. He'd had enough brainpower to charge it before falling asleep, at least.

Sam heard the shower turn on in the bathroom and knocked on the door.

"Did you check the mail while you were out?"

Through the scream of rushing water, John answered. "Why do you ask me that every time I leave the house?"

—

They had only been together a few weeks by Christmas break, nearly six months ago now, and in an almost cosmic case of coincidence John had thrown him in the backseat and driven out of the state almost as soon as the vacation bell had rang. What should have been a free two weeks of getting-to-know-you time had been taken by John and replaced with we're-going-on-a-hunt time. Something in Denver had been killing people, apparently, and John felt obligated to do something about it. These things always came down to 'extra hands', and Sam couldn't talk his way out of it, Dean had been gone for six months by that point, and neither could he ever in a hundred years explain the trip to Claudia, though she didn't seem too upset about Sam missing their first holiday together. By the time they had returned to Lyon at the new year, Sam had only one day to rest, wash up, and get ready for school the next day.

So he'd spent that day with Claudia. She'd been patient and, which shocked Sam the most, glad to see him. She'd even listened - he obviously hadn't said he was killing - rekilling - ghouls in the middle of snowstorms, but even though he didn't tell the entire truth he'd found the refuge she gave him immediately necessary. The entire trip to Colorado had almost been worth it, for that. He would never be able to share everything, but for once, someone other than Dean was listening. And it wasn't like he could talk to him, anymore.

He'd never had the same sort of solid base as he'd found with Claudia. Never stayed in one place long enough to think about finding it, for starters, less so when John or Dean came around. All he needed was a diploma, and some rings, then things would be set, because Sam craved the boring. He'd have a normal partner and a normal life; he wasn't afraid of normal work to put a normal roof over their heads, in a plain town where they would live their boring lives till they were put in the most basic graves they could afford. Those were the plans. Time was never going to be slower than waiting for the next few weeks to pass till he could put that plan in action.

That didn't sound like a bad influence at all, to Sam. He'd even gotten a cheerleader as a girlfriend, which came with its own drama but - that sounded very typical 'high school' to him. The cut on his face was his own fault - not Claudia's, not Dean's, but his own. His. At any moment John could put him - and has put him - in situations far worse, where he'd come out with deeper cuts and bruises than this shallow cut over his eyebrow. Who was there to call John a bad influence?

And now Sam was walking - didn't know where he was going, but he knew his feet hurt, the trek of his early morning stuck like a rock in his shoe. Sam reasoned there was no way anyone would make the effort to find them as they walked, but Dean played the better-safe-than-sorry card, and Claudia, scared, had agreed. It had been a fifty minute walk getting Claudia back home. He said by with a fast kiss, knowing Dean was watching for anything he could make fun of. For Sam and Dean to make their way back to their house had taken another half hour, and by the time Sam unlocked the door and let Dean in, Sam had almost been unconcerned with cleaning himself up. The tiredness was living in the near constant burn of his eyes.

Sam looked up at the sunny sky. He hadn't set out with a destination but his feet found one anyway; fifteen minutes after leaving his own front door, he ended up at Dean's.

The front of the house wasn't such a sight in the daylight, either, showing the cracked paint and old wood in perfect color. In the light it looked…sadder, though Sam had to admit the yard was cleaner than he expected. The best thing it had going for it was the missing mustard-yellow truck, no longer rusting in the gravel. Now it was a plain patch of rocks, and Sam swallowed. He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and crossed the street.

Dean didn't answer on the first knock or the second. That was when Sam thought he heard the sound music coming through from the other side. He checked the clock on his phone, reasoning it was at least possible Dean could be awake at 7 AM. He eyed the rock and the extra key, but thanks to his checked ego just a handful of hours before Sam didn't entertain letting himself in. A third knock gave the same result; Sam thought fuck it and tried the handle. It opened and he let himself in after all.

Sam didn't exactly see Dean, but he heard him. The music ran out the door like cold air, rushing passed his ears and somehow louder because of it. He eased the door closed and looked around the room. The single couch he remembered was pushed against the wall with a blanket cleanly folded over the back, and the coffee table had been cleared of every dish and cup. This too was pushed against the wall and the carpet underneath both looked freshly vacuumed, which Sam always assumed Dean knew how to do but could still feel the surprised look on his face. He brought his features back to neutral when he felt his brow sting.

The music was coming from a player set in the cinderblock-plywood entertainment center under the small TV, the window to the tape deck saying he was listening to Black Sabbath, written in Dean's all-caps handwriting, slanted and thick. It wasn't Sam's type but he could feel its charge in the air as it bounced around the room nonetheless, not in spite of Dean's singing, either. He couldn't see where Dean was singing from but thought from the reckless abandon in it that he was close. This lively, clean smelling air was completely different from what he'd experienced the night before.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. Maybe he should call after Dean, or should have just called in general. If Sam had known he was coming, that were. Just as Sam opened his mouth, his brother stood from behind the kitchen counter, facing the wall. His stained shirt from before was traded for a fresh gray one, forming and shifting around his shoulders and back as he bopped his head to the beat. He had something in his hands, something to tinker with that required his attention, because for most definitely a full minute he had his back to Sam, and Sam was stuck in wonder, maybe admiration, of how a song could transform such a hard person into a carefree one, in their own world from the words or the melody for maybe just a few minutes of distraction, the music maybe somehow louder, or just stronger.

Dean turned then and the music came back to normal. He jumped back reflexively when he saw Sam's shape at the door, but recognition turned the surprised 'O' of his mouth into a relieved smile. "Jesus Christ, Sam, don't know how to knock, eh?"

Sam forced his hands to be casual as he uncrossed his arms and turned to the tape player. "I heard you were having a party," Sam answered, turning the dial down. "I wasn't invited."

Dean laughed and leaned on the counter, grinning. He was drying a dish - Sam could see now what was in his hands. "You're always invited, little brother. I even would have picked you up, but…" Dean shrugged his shoulders, saying without actually saying 'it's out of my hands'. "I don't know about you but I'm partied out, though."

Sam beared the gibe but grinned nonetheless, crossing the room to where Dean was. For a few minutes longer he was going to float along in surprise.

Dean's face changed and he stuck out a hand, drying cloth included. "You're gonna want to stop, I'm not wearing pants."

"Oh," Sam said, poised for the next step.

"I wasn't exactly expecting company," Dean said. "Give me just a second."

He turned and walked into the same room Sam had dropped him off in the night before. Over the counter Sam caught a flash of red boxers and his eyes widened on their own, then the dish and drying cloth still clutched in Dean's hand, and he laughed to himself. The door closed between them. Sam waited. Over the music he could hear the jingle of a belt buckle alongside the sound of Dean pulling jeans on. It was practically uncountable, how many times they'd changed clothes around each other growing up. Of course, things changed as the times changed and they changed, but they were brothers after all. That definition had changed to Sam over the past year, though. For some reason it bothered Sam how that could also be the same case for Dean.

Sam turned around in the room and pulled his sweater off while he waited, choosing to ignore how his fingers shook when he pulled the cuffs off his arms. He hadn't seen Dean in a year but had been in his house twice in less than a day. Sam dropped his sweater over the folded blanket on the couch and sat, ran his hands through his hair to give them something to do, bounced his leg a little, then stopped himself. On the bottom shelf of the entertainment center Sam spied a beat-up cardboard box, fat sharpie writing on the side that said 'DEAN'S TAPES - DON'T TOUCH'. Something's don't change.

The bedroom door swished open and Dean strode around the counter and into the living room, in dark jeans and the same gray shirt, although, omitted any shoes or socks. Sam grinned at the white tops of his feet peeking through the long legs of his jeans. It was always so infrequent that Sam saw Dean without boots or his socks on, even before he'd left, that he had to smile. Dean walked past Sam on the futon, flicked him on the forehead – the safe side – and said, "Hop up and help me move this back."

Could it have been done with one person? Yes, because it had already been. Still, Sam took one side and Dean the other, pulling it back into it's indentations in the carpet. Dean straightened the folded blanket while Sam put the coffee table back in place. Neither missed a breath at all. Dean sank into the tired springs of his couch, but Sam so stiff in the knees he felt like he was floating. Not stiff, that wasn't right, he'd just walked across town - he was nervous, unable to sit. Where would he even begin to apologize for what he'd caused? Sam ran his hands over his jeans to feel the friction, take away some clamminess. Dean leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

"So, spit it out. Dad doesn't know you're here."

Sam shook his head no.

"And he knows you got hurt."

Sam sighed. "Yeah."

"Then he grounded you."

"Actually, no," Sam said. "Not exactly."

Dean looked pleasantly surprised. "But…"

Sam finally took a seat next to his brother, and as he did, it was as if everything came out of his feet and left him empty. A tiredness came on him from nowhere. Sam let his head fall back on the couch. "I yelled at him. He says I'm not allowed to see Claudia anymore."

Sam expected some kind of reaction, but got none. Dean's eyes seemed observant, as though he were listening for more, or thinking, nothing giving away shock or anything else. All Sam got were a few absent blinks, then Dean said, "You're probably the dumbest son of a bitch in the entire town."

Sam blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. And that's saying something. Now he's angry." Dean scooted forward and turned slightly to face Sam. "If you thought things were hard before, you're gonna be wishing you'd kept your mouth shut. Screaming doesn't do anything but make him mad."

Sam let the words marinate for a moment while watching Dean, whose face wasn't angry, but open in an earnest sort of way, an honest way. Things could be harder, that much was true, but in a matter of weeks it wasn't going to matter what John did. Graduation had taken its time, sure, and he might be eighteen, but he was still willing to shell out for the next bit of patience.

"Who cares, Dean?" Dean turned on Sam, looked at him. Sam felt a bubble of laughter. "In a few days I'll be nineteen with a diploma and he won't be able to touch me. You'd have yelled at him, too."

Dean's hands were ringing each other. "Dad's a big boy, Sammy, he can take care of himself. I'm more worried about you. He can do a lot more to you with his words than he can with his hands. Trust me."

Sam stared at Dean, wondering at that. "I can take care of myself too, Dean."

Dean sighed, and that seemed to release the pressure; like a mask, Dean slipped into a seemingly different mood altogether. He laughed, looked away. "Don't I know it." He wanted to say something else, Sam could tell, but he swallowed instead. His Adam's apple bobbed, and Sam noticed that even his neck was clean shaven, when it hadn't been at Becca's. A hand, gentle in pressure like John's had been, except this one welcomed, pushed Sam's hair aside to uncover his bandage. Sam felt betrayed by his own body; his shoulders relaxed under Sam's hand, just like earlier, in his bathroom.

"You changed this yet today?"

It was interesting how simple touches could feel so different. John, Dean, Claudia. Sam knew Dean's hands as well as his own but even after all this time, it felt the same. He shook his head, no.

"I figured. Where would you be without me to take care of you?"

"At home, changing my own bandages."

"But now it'll be done right. Get up. There's a folding chair in the closet. Take that through my room and into the bathroom and wait for me while I find my kit."

They split in different directions. Sam opened the coat closet and found, shocker, coats. But behind those, an old looking metal folding chair. He found Dean in the kitchen, digging through the cabinets under the sink. The farther he reached, the more his shirt inched up his back. Sam bumped Dean's butt with the chair. Dean made a surprised noise when he caught himself.

"Better be nice to the guy getting ready to change your bandage."

Sam leaned against the wall instead, watching Dean dig and arrange, then rearrange. "You're house is clean."

From the cupboard Dean finally pulled a box, coming back to sit on his haunches. "Yeah," he said, studying the outside of the box. "What else is it supposed to be?"

"Nothing, it's just that it surprised me."

The cupboard closed, hollow wood, and Dean stood with the box under one arm. "It's Saturday. Cleaning day." He passed Sam with a clap on the shoulder. Sam frowned, considered Dean's words, then nodded. It had been the same at home before he'd left, too, though now it was a whenever-they-felt-like-it situation. He followed after with the chair.

Dean had an adjoining bathroom that Sam hadn't noticed the night before, and it was smack in front of the mirror where Sam set up the chair. Dean cracked open the plastic box and sat it on the sink after washing his hands, always the professional. Sam watched his reflection in the glass all the while, his steady hands and eyes focused.

Dean fixed him up while Sam watched through the mirror, running a wet cloth around for the extra dried blood. The superglue Dean used to keep the wound closed still felt solid; Dean was careful not to snag the cloth on it. He put the band-aid in place and ran the pads of his thumbs softly over the adhesive. His skin was tougher than Sam remembered. But each second took Sam's worries farther and farther away, and eased his muscles. It was no time before Sam's eyes fell closed.

"So, why're you here, Sammy?"

That brought Sam back to the present. His voice felt thin. "I'm sorry about your truck."

"That's…not really what I meant."

Sam swallowed and realized his leg was bouncing, ran a hand through his hair again. "I can't be around dad any more, and…I mean, Claudia lives so far away. I don't have many places to go."

"No friends around herein Lyon?"

Sam shrugged but Dean's hand kept him from going too far. "Not really. They're more school friends anyway."

The focused look was back on Dean's face. He underhand tossed the dirty towel into the sink and perched next to Sam on the edge of the tub. He had to look up at this angle, but Sam found that even more uncomfortable. So he looked at the floor. He had always imagined that when the day came he would John stupefied, standing dumb in the middle of their house while Sam carried his bags out the door, his acceptance letter waving like a victory flag. But telling Dean his plans had never crossed his mind, let alone in his bathroom. He was already so many layers deeper than he pictured himself ever being again.

"You always have somewhere to go, Sammy, though I understand why you don't. But, uh, I know dad doesn't always want you going places alone. Even…here." Dean's pulled back, something occurring to him. "Speaking of which, tell me what he said this morning."

So Sam did, only, only leaving out the comment of John's ass and how far Dean was inside of it - he couldn't say why exactly, but talking badly about John somehow felt like talking about Dean too. Sam finished, and a few heartbeats passed by with neither saying more. Dean only looked at Sam, studying his face, a calculating look in his eye that Sam didn't look away from. If Dean perhaps looked deeply enough, maybe he would finally see Sam's struggle was a real one, but his gaze somehow felt the opposite. Silence could feel judgmental, too.

Of which, Sam had had enough. "Dean."

The lights came on and he answered, "Move in with me instead."

Sam blinked. "There's no way Dad would let that - "

"You're eighteen now, little brother, almost nineteen. Dad doesn't get to let you do shit." Dean was wringing his thumbs again. That made Sam nervous, for some reason. "You could even bring Claudia over. If you wanted."

"Wait, really? You liked her?"

"That's the beauty of this." Dean spread his arms, smiling to bare a fang. "I don't have to like her, you could just bring her over."

That made Sam think. It was tempting, almost intoxicatingly so, to be out of John's house even these few short weeks early. At the very least he'd be in familiar waters, would know what sharks he was swimming with. Sharks though they still were, which was why leaving for college was such an important part of the plan, and for the first time he was starting to ask himself if the plan was less about college and more about just getting the hell out. Out of hunting, of the family business, of this psychotic circle of life and death. Dean would never quit it for him, and Claudia would never understand if he brought her in.

But, certain paths had crossed earlier that morning regardless of Sam's insistence that his two worlds never meet. Becca's party had been a wrench in the gears that he had never expected to happen.

"How did you know about last night? The party." The question came to Sam then, one he hadn't thought to ask last night.

"Your councilor and I are friends." Sam raised his good eyebrow, getting a groan ready. Dean shook his head. "It's not like that. Sometimes. She knew about the party from kids in your class and warned me that she'd overheard your plans to go. I called her when I heard you take my truck and she dropped me off at Becca's."

Sam knew something suspicious had gotten Dean to that party, but the truth of it took Sam by surprise. "Why would you follow me? You told me to go. You said 'unclench' so many times the entire block probably shit themselves."

"I wanted you to go, but I didn't want you to die there. Jesus, Sam, you act like I don't worry about you."

Sam deflated. The balloon of his ego had popped a handful of hours ago when Raymond had sideswiped him, and the fact that Dean had been the messiah to save him didn't help it. He sat back against the folding chair and sighed.

"I don't know, Dean. I don't think Claudia will be into it. She doesn't really know you." Even though he had no true intentions of asking her.

One of Dean's hands dug so harshly into the other that Sam wondered if it hurt. "I just mean, what other options do you have? You'll be stuck with dad and miserable for the rest of your life."

Miserable; Sam wondered then how Dean saw his own life, which version of it that he was living. "Actually, I was thinking of going somewhere new. Maybe west."

Dean's brow pinched in the middle. "What's out west?"

"California," Sam said. Then cleared his throat, went on, "Stanford, I was thinking. Or, I hope."

"What do you mean you hope? You're the smartest guy I know."

"It's just that, everything - my GPA, all my tests, all the stress, the praying - I put it all into my application but I have no idea if it's enough, and it won't even be the hardest part by the end of it. I even needed Ms. Gonzalez to help fill it out. And according to her, the real mystery is if I'll see anything back at all, they get so many applications."

First stop on his way to school: post office. First place he went before going home: post office. Always something there but never anything for him. Graduation was coming closer and closer, and he felt nothing but a growing dread every time the name on the envelope wasn't his, which was never. Forgetting the paranoia that John would get there before him, nothing would make him feel calm again till something showed up, and he could tear the paper envelope open with his own hands. If it came at all.

"And Claudia still hadn't gotten hers in yet," Sam went on, feeling a sudden surge in his stress remembering her words. "She's going to miss the deadline and make me wait another year if she doesn't hurry."

He settled himself down with a huff and watched a few different things come over Dean's face; disappointment, a little strife, but his shoulders stayed strong. Through that all, he eventually smiled again. "That sounds…" He took a deep breath. "Awesome. When do you leave?"

Sam shrugged. Wouldn't I love to tell you? "Don't really know, that's the problem. I still haven't heard anything back." Then, "Not even a denial. I was hoping to hear by now, at least but. It has only been a week I guess."

Whatever was in the words seemed to calm Dean, and he unclenched his hands. With that he stood from his seat on the tub while he slapped Sam's knee, smiling wide all the while. "Alright, birthday boy, we still have some time together, then. We'll leave tomorrow morning. First thing." He rubbed his hands together like he was heating up this great plan in his palms. He left Sam alone in the chair as he walked out of the bathroom. Sam sat there a second, confused. He leapt up and chased after his brother.

Who was stooped in front of his bedside dresser, flipping through different clothes like cassette tapes.

"What?"

"We talked about it last night." Dean held on to a small stack of shirts he'd taken from a drawer and dropped them on the bed. "A road trip."

With his eyes Sam watched Dean move back and forth, looking for signs of…something. His mouth went a little dry. "A what?"

"You heard me. Last night, you even agreed to it. Where do you wanna go?" A suitcase had come out from somewhere in the midst of this all, already half full of things and growing.

"One thing at a time, Dean." Sam walked up to the other side of the bed, leaning on the mattress. "I only agreed because I thought it would shut you up. I thought - "

Dean waved a dismissive hand, clutching a pair of boxers. "I know, I'm just giving you a hard time. But it's your birthday, Sammy." Finally Dean stopped long enough to look at Sam, already surrounded by small stacks of clothes. "You deserve something better than some knife, or some book. What's dad doing for you?" When Sam's mouth opened and nothing came out, Dean went on. "Exactly. You only turn nineteen once, just like every other birthday." Sam thought he saw some sadness in the corners of Dean's eyes. "And, if you go to school…"

This will be the last birthday for a while. Which, if Sam had had his way, it wouldn't be a while - it would be forever. And the understanding that came with the fact felt like it hollowed out his chest and filled the space with guilt. And shame, that he'd been so ready to sign Dean off with the same labels as John. Dean had a clean house, food in his pantry, a suitcase that wasn't broken, and wasn't just a worn out duffel. A job. Leaving for California was also leaving Dean here in Mississippi.

"I'm sorry about your truck," Sam said again.

For a second Dean didn't reply, listening. Then he laughed, a breathy one, letting his head hang down. "I hated that truck. Smashing it was actually all I could do to help it."

"I'll get you a new one. Someday."

"I don't care about a car, Sam. Those I know how to find." He turned back around to his closet and riffled through the hangers, then stopped again. He threw his pointer finger in Sam's face. "You do owe me a new hula girl though, for my dashboard."

Sam laughed under his breath, out of wonder, feeling his consciousness slip back into the place where time moved on but wasn't passing, where Dean's person was the most solid thing in the room and Sam could drink in some of his energy, mirror it, maybe feel some of it himself. How had any of this happened? Twelve months had slipped by. Truthfully, a few more could've too and Sam wouldn't have known any better. But, just like last night, realizing that Dean had changed in this passed year, Sam knew he had too. Was this the time to be friends again? Brothers? Had they ever not been?

"Dad won't let me go without him," Sam said as the thought came. "And he's going to Salt Lake."

Between his hands, Dean rolled a shirt into a ball and stuffed it in his case. "Let me worry about dad."

"What about a car?"

"Didn't I just tell you I got cars covered? I work at a goddamn repair shop, I'm swimming in cars." Sam didn't know that. Dean tugged the zipper passed a kink in the teeth, both arms leaned on top. It looked inflated on the top, like the top of a container of yogurt. "So, you wanna finally pick a place or is it up to me?"

The only real road trip Sam ever imagined taking was to be on a dirty passenger seat of a Greyhound bus, and not to mention that John had moved them from state to state, had taken them passed nearly every landmark in the country, maybe save the Statue of Liberty, and the New York half of Niagara Falls. The Canadian side was the photo people saw in post cards and advertisements, anyway, but Sam wasn't willing to leave John alone with the post office box key long enough to go to another country. They didn't have passports, anyway. Something closer to home, then; what was out there that they hadn't seen?

"Maybe…the Grand Canyon?"

Dean's shoulders looked strong while he was leaned forward, teeth shining when he smiled at Sam. "If that's what you want. We can go anywhere."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Saturday, April 27th, 2002

This time making, the trip to Claudia's on foot, there was no car in sight he could have borrowed - 'borrowed'. When Sam had finally opened his phone, walking out of Dean's door, Claudia's curious text message reminded him he was running behind. On the way out, Dean tossed him an apple, "for the road", and as he strolled Sam tossed the used core into an irrigation ditch to the side of the road.

The Grand Canyon. A wonder of the world in the middle of the desert, and in a few short days he would be standing right on the edge of it. Some of Dean's enthusiasm had found its way into him, too. But he couldn't lose the feeling that things were about to evolve. Changing like there was a secret he could uncover now. What had changed about Dean since he'd moved out? What had changed about him? He wondered if he was making the right decision.

When he wasn't sneaking Claudia out of the house in the middle of the night Sam was more also welcome to knock at the front door, or 'just walk in', as her mom says. Claudia could never really say why her parents were so warm to him, but lately he had the feeling it was because when your daughter had an ex-boyfriend like Jackson, you might be more willing to cling on to the 'good ones'. He liked being one of the 'good ones', like in the movies. A month or so back her dad had given him a tour of his firm when he heard Sam was thinking about studying law, had even given Sam permission to list him as a reference on his application.

But Claudia's text had given him a warning he expected, but hoped against. Grounded, don't come to the door.

That meant Sam had to take the long way around the tall brush that grew against their property line and wade through the small path he'd worn over the months - he might have been allowed to use the front door, but this was a little more fun. She was waiting by the window, sitting on her pew seat. They caught each other's eye at the same moment. Sam smiled and Claudia opened the window wide enough for him to fit.

Halfway through Sam caught Claudia's signal, her finger to her mouth to keep him quiet. Finally in, she left the window open. The day was nice and the air nicer.

"What's up?" Claudia asked, helping him the rest of the way inside. "You look happy."

"Do I?" Now that he thought about it, his mood was about as tall as he was. "My brother wants to take me on a road trip for my birthday."

Claudia's grinned conspiratorially. She didn't know anything more about Dean than his first name. Although, not anymore. "Really? That's cool."

"Yeah," Sam said. He pulled his legs in and sat next to her on the window seat. "Why are we whispering? I didn't see any cars."

"Carmen's still here." Carmen was their cleaning lady, the expert responsible for their shining house. Sam wanted a house just like it someday. "She hasn't asked me to leave my room yet, though. I think she knows I'm upset."

"Why, what happened?"

Claudia put her eyes down and moved to the bed instead, leaving Sam on the window seat. She was still in her bed clothes, her hair up in a bun instead of around her shoulders. Her features looked tired. "They heard me come inside this morning."

Sam's own face dropped, the guilty place in his stomach filling up again. "Oh fuck."

Throwing her arms out she flopped backwards on the comforter in a whoosh of air.

"They're gonna kill me when they find me," Sam said to himself.

"No they won't." Claudia stared up at her ceiling. "I told them Becca picked me up. They knew about the party, though, somehow."

That did little to relieve Sam, but he sighed regardless. "You shouldn't have done that."

"It had to be somebody's fault. I didn't want it to be yours."

Claudia's ceiling fan clicked as it spun, marking the time like a clock. "So," Sam said, "you met my brother. Just how you wanted."

She turned her head on the blanket, grinning. "You mean Bruce Lee?"

Sam laughed. "Sure, Bruce Lee. He's a good fighter, isn't he?"

She turned herself to lay on her side, hand supporting her head, legs curled to her stomach. "A little brooding, but I won't insult the hero. Not after his truck got bashed in. I didn't know you were a fighter too, though."

Sam grinned, embarrassed by proxy. Dean, the hero. He pushed off the window seat and joined Claudia on the bed, only sitting on the edge, though. Something about Claudia's body language gave him pause.

"So, uh, what happened with your parents, then? You didn't get your phone taken away, obviously."

Her twirling fingers froze in the blanket fringe, then tapped hard a few times.

"Listen, Sam, I don't want to fight, but I need to talk about something."

Sam's throat went tight. He'd heard that said in movies before, too. "Okay."

She crossed her legs underneath herself and took a deep breath. Letting it go, she looked at Sam. "I don't want to go to Stanford."

Sam's blood came to a halt while he thought about her words. He met her gaze, strong and insistent, but couldn't take any meaning from them. "But - what about - " He straightened himself up in his seat too, meeting Claudia's height. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Because I worried you'd get upset. Stanford's your dream and I know you want me to go with you, but…" Her soft voice trailed away, her mouth held open while she groped for words. In her brown eyes was the glisten of gathering tears. When next she spoke her pitch was barely above a whisper. "This is moving way too fast for me." A pass of her hand between them, a gesture to show, "This," she said.

"Fast," Sam parroted back. "Well, we're graduating, Claudia. It's going to be fast for everyone."

"That's not what I mean. And I think you know that."

Sam did. But it was the understanding of the topic that came along with waking up from a dream or coming up from anesthesia, where your brain was accepting the information but it wasn't adding up anything. "Well, I, uh. This is just a little sudden, is all, I thought we were - we were on the same page. With this." He mimed the same gesture Claudia had made between them.

Claudia passed a finger over her ear, tucking back a piece of her hair. "I think at first, yeah, I was excited to make these plans because I thought we were just talking, and I was having fun because I do like you so much." She bore into him with her eyes, perhaps asking him to believe that. "But you started talking about Stanford and stopped listening to my opinions on it and I and sick to death of hearing about that college. My dad still wears his hoodie during their games."

"Okay, so I'll stop talking about it, but I don't see why it's…" A dawning realization. "Was this what you wanted to talk about yesterday?"

Claudia sighed. "No. And yes. Can I be completely honest with you?"

That was dangerous sounding. "I don't know."

"I wanted to talk yesterday because I was worried I was pregnant."

The fan above them still ticked, ticked, ticked, like a clock with Sam's heartbeat. Claudia didn't move. Sam couldn't. Just stared. And there was no chance he'd heard her wrong, because those words had sounded like a church bell. With what little hold he could get onto his thinking brain he paid attention to her tense. "Was," Sam repeated. He shaped his mouth to keep talking but a quiver ran through his throat, cutting him off. He swallowed, tried again. "You aren't worried about it…now?"

"No," she said, relieved, and let her body fall a little bit. "That was the, 'it worked itself out', part. I got my period during cheer practice."

Sam blinked.

"It was a problem with my birth control that would make me just straight up miss my period, but I thought I'd gotten it taken care of. Except this time lasted a while. So I got scared and took a test and it came back positive, got even more freaked out, panicked. I was going to talk to you about going to the doctor but then…" She brought up her fists and clenched them, something like a victory pose. "It sorted itself out."

The tension was in Sam's stomach to the point of nausea. He let go of his pent up breath, shook his head to himself. He could only imagine what Claudia had been feeling, and on her own. But it wasn't a problem anymore, and that was good - a kid right then would put every single one of his plans in the fire.

Sam put his face in his hand to rub at his eyes. "I don't know what to say to that."

Claudia didn't answer. When Sam lifted his head she was still watching him with an appraising expression on her face. He turned to stone in her stare, till a moment passed and she spoke again.

"And it made it think, about a lot of stuff, you know? Of how fast this was moving. You talk a lot about getting married but never asked me what I thought. And how we're going to go to school together without wondering if I even want to go to college in the first place." Sam was blanched. "But I didn't want to talk right then, I just wanted to go to Becca's and relax. But then we get to the party and your brother shows up. I've been asking for a long time to meet him, at least, didn't even have to be your dad. And when I finally do, it's at a party, and he's hitting Brandon in the face with his own belt. That doesn't seem…strange, to you?"

It didn't - truly. His family was in the business of strange. He knew this wasn't how relationships worked, every movie and book and song told him these things were supposed to be easy if you wanted it enough, and he knew hiding such large pieces of his history from Claudia wasn't how it was supposed to happen, but this was how it needed to happen. So the fact that something slipped through the cracks - yeah, it was a little bit of a roadblock, but in a sea of odd things, it wasn't 'strange'. At least, not the way Claudia said it.

"I stay away from my family because they're not good people," Sam said. "I was honest about that, and you said you were fine with it."

"And I was at first. Because I didn't know where this was going. But we've been together almost six months now, you're talking about marrying me, taking me to California, and I was fake pregnant with a kid that would also be yours. So, I'm sorry but I have to take that back, Sam - I'm not okay not knowing about you. And I'm not okay with your family not knowing about me. And I know this time a baby wasn't even real but some day it could be, and I'm not okay with them not knowing their family, either. It feels like you're trying to keep me a secret."

Sam was getting hot in the face, hotter in temper, but he had the wherewithal to look her in the eye first - and came up cold. The whites of Claudia's eyes glistened wildly. Blinking, he could see the tears welled in them, bound to spill, and even still her gaze was strong. She had her lips curled inward in a frown, let them go with a sniffle. The words turned to paste in Sam's mouth as his stomach fell through the bed.

"Why'd you tell your brother you were talking to 'nobody'?"

Sam attention came back to the present at the mention of Dean. "I don't know what you mean."

"Carly," she said, like that explained it. "I called her to talk - she was giving me advice about the whole…". Claudia made another gesture over her abdomen. "But she wanted to warn me that you were talking to some guy on Friday at the lockers, after I left for class." Sam reached for the memory and grabbed it. There had been someone, a girl, at her locker behind Sam while Dean tried to pull him away from school. "She said you told him you were talking to 'nobody'."

His mind was screaming but nothing was making sense. His face felt hot, his hands gone cold, clammy, his heart running like mad. He closed his mouth and looked down to his hands; so flushed with the shame he felt, he couldn't even grab his hands.

In the top of his vision Sam saw Claudia lean down to grab his eyes with her own. "I like you a lot, Sam, but if I'm nobody then I think we need to break up. I'm not a free ride to get away from problems with your family."

Those words. A gavel on his sentence.

Claudia sniffled again, swiped under her eyes with the cuff of her sweater pulled over her hands. "So, uh. Have fun with your brother, on your trip. Do some soul searching. Figure out what the hell it is you really want." They stared at each other for a moment, Sam pleading with her to understand, her response saying she already did. Something around them was growing, like a scream, crawling under Claudia's door.

"That's Carmen," she said, by way of explanation. "She'll want to vacuum in here next. You should probably go."

Sam could barely nod, but he knew there was nothing for it. He pushed off the bed in his daze and crossed to the open window, up and out without looking back. He couldn't look back. If he did, he…didn't know what would happen.

—

Sam put in the key, turned the lock, and opened the post office box. No letter.


	7. September 27th, 2005

September 27th, 2005

California is best in the fall, you think, when the air is cool as it hits your face but the sun is still warm, and the leaves will still be green for a while yet. Your favorite thing over the years has been watching them turn their colors, something you didn't notice much in that old suffocating town. Fall, when the air in the morning was crisp and promised you a clear day. You've taken a seat beneath the usual tree. A peek at your phone tells you Jessica was supposed to meet for lunch ten minutes ago now, and another over your shoulders says you still have some of that time to yourself. The banded group of envelopes comes out of your bag. Every time you pick it up, you swear it grows by five pounds.

You haven't opened a single one yet, haven't brought yourself to, and it's been almost a month since you rediscovered them. How many are there - some twenty, twenty-five letters? You stopped counting when they stopped coming. Each with the same script on the face but each with a different stamp, and when you flip through them you find they change like a kind of calendar, with the order of the holidays and seasons, broken up in some places with different state stamps. The return address changes almost constantly, too, but each unopened and always from the same writer - 'Dean Winchester'. If you open one, you know, you'll have to open them all. Can you do that? Maybe you should have left them in the shoebox. Among the other things.

The chatter of those around you begins fading away as your focus increases. You've got the topmost letter by the corner and you're tugging, playing chicken with - the universe? Yourself? Who will give up first, you or the rubber band keeping it -

The letter comes free. You suppose that now you have to open it.

Dean's cramped hand writing. 'Tell me all about the west coast, Sammy - '

The breeze smells sweet and clean and it's that which betrays her; the familiar smell of Jessica's perfume drifts to you. A panic leaps in your chest. The letters are stuffed back into your bag at the sound of footsteps coming to a pause. The shadow bends over. Jessica is laughing down at you, an angel with blonde hair haloed in the afternoon light.

"Sorry I'm late, Sam."

You smile wider at the honeyed voice in your ears. You'll worry about the letters later. "I wasn't waiting long."


	8. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sunday, April 26th, 2002

Sam's night of sleep was nothing but opening unaddressed envelopes full of nothing but blank paper. Between each envelope, he had to climb up and down a flight of stairs, and if he didn't, he would die. Until a firm hand materialized, tripping him up till he fell down the flight of stairs to his death, shoved repeatedly to the sound of his alarm, and he was slammed back into his conscious mind to stare at Dean's grin, which was almost as terrifying.

"What's going on?"

Dean was stooped to be heard through a sort of whisper. "You have to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. The road's calling."

Sam's head increased five pounds as their plans dawned on him, his pillow fluffing around his head when he sunk back into it it. He hadn't even packed. The moment he walked back in the door yesterday he was in bed and mashing his face in the pillow, the pain of his eyebrow be damned. These plans…leaving to a place he knew nothing about in a car with his brother, they didn't seem exactly important anymore.

"How did you get in my room?"

"Dad's not exactly the sneakiest person in the world." Dean opened his hand to show the silver key inside.

Sam tried to make an excuse for himself but Dean stopped him when he couldn't understand the pillow-mumbling. Sam lifted his head and looked at Dean from the corner of his eye. He plucked up some courage.

"Is it really important that we go?"

Dean's mouth twisted, and after a second he stood straight and moved to the door. Sam thought he was going to leave without even saying a word back, but Dean was only closing the bedroom door. He came back and squatted next to the bed, keeping his footsteps quiet. Even if the glow of his alarm clock wasn't telling him the time, he knew it had to be early; Dean was a creature of shadows, particularly across his jaw, chin. In a hurry enough to leave at six AM that he hadn't bothered shaving, and though his face was excited, his eyes were still sleepy.

The urge to laugh bubbled up in Sam's throat, and he buried his face one more time to stop him.

"Ah-ah-ah, no can do, Sammy. Car's all packed and ready to go. Where's your stuff?"

Sam freed his mouth, but not his eyes. "I haven't packed yet."

He heard Dean huff a sigh. "Then I'll help you, but we have to get going. The sooner the better."

Sam suddenly wanted to scream; he didn't. But he did push himself up onto an elbow, forcing his thumbs into his eyes, enjoying the feeling for a moment. "No, don't worry about it," Sam said through the stretch. "I'll get it done."

Dean slapped a quick hand on Sam's bare shoulder, Sam wincing at the sound. "Good job. Fifteen minutes. Then we're on the road, and I'm not afraid to throw you in the car in your underwear." When Dean chuckled, Sam humored him with a cheap smile, letting it fall away when Dean turned his back. Before Dean slid back out through the cracked door, he whispered, "Make sure you're quiet, Dad's asleep. I told him we wouldn't wake him up." The crack grew smaller, then Dean was on the other side of the door. Sam waited a moment, staring after him. When he knew he wasn't coming back, Sam let his elbows collapse and fell, crashing back into the mattress and pillows.

In the end he had no clue what to pack. He'd fallen back into the weird purgatory sleep for five minutes, and woke up even sloppier than he had felt before. Would he need a coat in the middle of the desert? Did he have any reason to bring a nice shirt? He didn't think so; but he'd wished he'd paid better attention to what Dean had been packing, instead of being so worried. Both ended up in the duffel bag just in case.

Throwing on the same clothes as the day before, Sam grabbed for the hair tie sitting on his desk, and for no other reason than that did Sam remember Claudia. Not the events of the day before, because he hadn't forgotten them - not a word - but something else. Under his bed, between a slat of fiberboard and the mattress, Sam pulled out the wad of cash which he'd usually referred to as his 'Claudia money'. Dean had a job, and though he had never mentioned Sam bringing his own money, being responsible for the demolishment of his truck came with its own moral obligation to be as little a burden as possible. Which was how he came to be $200 'richer', shoved blindly into the pocket of his sweatpants, as he buckled himself into Dean's car.

"One stop to make before we get on the road," Dean said, reversing out of the parking spot. "But then we're outta here."

—

Dean had sent her a text, careful to shield the phone from Sam between his leg and the door, to let her know they were finally on their way. She'd been clear to be no later than 6:30 but he hadn't expected Sam trying to get out of the drive. Couldn't do anything about it though. Now it was 6:40 and Dean eased the brakes as he pulled into River's front drive.

"I'll be just a fast second, 'kay? Just have to solidify your 'excused absence'." He gave Sam's knee two quick pats and climbed out of the borrowed car.

He knew Sam wanted away from their dad and from hunting.

He knew Sam saw him as nothing but mud and dumb and monsters.

And all he had to do was get Sam alone, and show him - that he was willing to do whatever it took to make sure Sam didn't get on a Greyhound anytime soon without at least trying to fix what had come between them, didn't leave him behind like Dean had left him that day, over a year ago now. And this…appointment, he could call it, was going to make sure that went without a hitch.

River Gonzalez, a young woman a few years Dean's senior with dark brown hair and a wicked gleam in her eye, stood on edge of the steps just outside the door, waiting for him as he climbed the steps. He chanced a glance backwards to Sam in the car. He was watching Dean through the windshield. Dean offered a smile.

"Nice care. You got a thing for being late, don't you?" River asked. "Good thing for Sam it doesn't run in the family."

"Would you believe me if I said this was his fault? Nah, he's a good kid." It was then Dean noticed the buzzing feeling in his chest that always made him talk too fast. "Do you, uh…have it?"

"I do," River said coolly. She extracted a hand from her hoodie pocket, holding a purple crushed velvet drawstring bag, no bigger than a baseball. She held it up by the string and dangled it like a hypnotist. Dean's nerves reached his face at the sight of it. This wasn't where he wanted to be, wasn't who he wanted to be doing business with, but it was necessary.

River said, humor shining in her eyes, "One luck charm, to keep the bed bugs away." Dean reached out, only for River to pull her hand back. "And the payment."

Dean's mouth twisted in a scowl. River's other hand appeared from her sweater, holding a second bag, colored red. For easy sorting, Dean thought.

"They're going to meet you - "

"At the Little Rock High School. I remember," Dean cut off.

"And you need to be there - "

"By ten-thirty - I remember, River."

"That's good. All that's left to do is activate it." She forced her fingertips into the mouth of the purple bag, pulling it open. "A strand of hair, a fingernail, some spit." She winked. "Any piece of you so it knows who it's giving the luck."

Dean pointed a skeptical eyebrow in her direction but she only smiled. He stretched his arm passed the cuff of his coat, pinched a hair on his forearm between his fingernails. The follicle was small and white, and Dean wondered if it was this minuscule token that would damn him. He held it above the bag and let go. It fell inside almost comically slowly. With quick fingers she cinched it shut again, just as it had been before. Dean had expected some flash of light or maniacal cackling, but got neither. River let the bag slide from her grip when Dean reached for it a second time.

For it's size the charm was heavier than he anticipated, thinking witches for a more conservative sort, perhaps. And maybe all the more because of it, the weight of the bag made the worry in his chest buzz stronger. Something was actually inside it. In his other hand he took the red satchel, the payment.

"What's in this one?" Dean asked.

"There is such thing as customer confidentiality. I can't tell you that. Just a little something some old friends ordered."

Into either breast pocket of his coat Dean stashed the charms. Careful to remember which was where, in case of…in case.

"Have Sam's excuse?" River asked.

Dean did pull out his wallet then. Next to a few spare bills was a white piece of folded paper. She smoothed the creases, giving a quick read. "Yeah, this is fine. They don't compare signatures anymore anyway. So, where are you taking him? You didn't say on the phone."

"I would rather keep that private," Dean said right away. Sharing more than he needed to with her could be dangerous. She was doing him a favor for this - yes. She had kept an eye on Sam all this time - yes. But all of it was born out of necessity. If he had it his way, none of this would be happening.

River folded the note back in half. "I'll try and call if anything changes, but keep in mind, what's inside that red bag is for my friends' eyes only. I'll know if they get it or not. It's a very important order."

"So important you can't do it yourself?"

"Precisely. So important I can't do it myself. But believe me, I would love to be there when they use it."

—

The car radio told them it was 6:45 AM, and Sam now understood why Dean was so eager to go; it might have been the year 2002, the world had known about the Grand Canyon for hundreds and hundreds of years already, but sitting in the passenger seat while Dean stood at the pump, Sam felt like an explorer, setting out to discover and uncover and finally see something larger than himself.

Dean leaned through the open driver's window and forced a few bills at Sam, bringing him back.

"Run inside and get me a water, would you? And a map, too. I didn't have one at home."

Sam took the cash. "That's all you want?"

"Well, maybe grab one of those little donuts, too. And anything you want. We'll find a real place to eat along the way."

The bell on the gas station door announced Sam's entrance. The Shell gas station was nearly deserted, in Sunday morning fashion. Dean leaned against the side of the car with his hands in his pockets while the pump filled the tank. He had a defensive tilt to his head as he looked up and down the road, a coat on even as the cool, early morning air was disappearing with the climbing sun. Sam didn't have a word for it; the place in his body where the thrill lived, where he felt like a pioneer, was also calling out for him to catalogue this, his journey, write down or record or however he had to make it happen. He passed the donuts and the turnstile bearing maps to everywhere you wanted to go. He found it down the last isle, on the bottom shelf, in the rainbow colored boxes in stacks three high. Big white letters that read 'KODAK' along the side. Forcing open the top, Sam pulled out the disposable camera to the sight of his reflection in the lens, the loose plastic pieces clinking together while he wound the film.

He went back to the window facing the pumps. The same ray of light still fell over Dean's shoulder while Sam lined up the shot to the grid through the viewfinder. Dean was looking back and forth over either shoulder, observant. Just as Sam's fingers pressed the clicker, Dean found Sam through the shop window and his eyes widened in surprise.

An attention-grabbing cough shot out from the front counter. The cashier had a tall-and-skinny frame, thin arms crossed over his uniform. He looked at Sam from down his nose, like he didn't know his shirt was on inside out.

A few moments later Sam walked through the chiming door a few dollars lighter and three cameras heavier, already unfolding the map, putting north to north. Dean was behind the wheel, one leg poking through the open door, his head buried in a cardboard box. A box which said 'Dean's tapes - don't touch' in marker along the side, falling apart at the edges.

The car rocked when Sam sat down. Dean hefted his box over his shoulder and set it in the back, leaned his hand on Sam's chair to see the map.

"Alright Sacajawea, north, right?"

Sam had narrowed down Mississippi till he'd found Lyon, aligning the little compass in the corner. The only line Sam came to care about in the web of them appeared to be US 49 North. Sam heart came into his throat as he spoke. "That way, Clark."

Dean started the engine and pulled onto the road. "I like to think I'd be Louis."

Sam laughed to himself, and in no time felt the drag of the engine force him into the back of his seat as Dean accelerated. He'd produced a white tape from somewhere and fed it to the tape player, and as he met the speed limit, farmland speeding passed them, Sam exhaled, and listened to the music.


	9. October 9th, 2005

_October 9th, 2005_

_Who needs a functioning heater in the first place? Not you, that's for sure. Besides, while you sit here in the Super-center parking lot, the windows of your car fogging in the cold against your breath, your hands would be frozen regardless. It was two months yet till winter started but the day, like your mood, had turned dark regardless._

_Opening that shoebox hadn't been the best idea, in hindsight. It had buried things you were content with being buried, yet now you are the proud owner of old memories, and guilts, and truths that had turned to lies over the years, somewhere. The letters, an old marked-up USA road map, a cassette tape, a post card, keychain, old things that you couldn't stand to look at as the weeks passed so you put them away, and even still…they had been important enough to bring to California. So important that you remember keeping the box in your lap the entire bus ride here. Just like you weren't going to read Dean's letters, you also weren't going to develop those three rolls of film, but it just so happened that you needed to make the trip to WalMart, and here you are, holding the thick pouches of photos._

_You didn't need to develop the film to remember what those pictures were, but you did it anyway, and that didn't stop you from ripping open the first envelope that read, 'Develop your memories!', no more than two steps away from the counter. You forgot to thank the employee. Now, you regret being so rash. Especially once you locked your eyes on the first picture you pulled out, and you felt something dead in your brain take its first waking breath after three-and-a-half years. And now you're locked in your idling car while your phone rings from the passenger seat where you tossed it. Jessica, probably wondering where you are with the groceries for dinner. _

_The letters brought back so many memories to the surface that you can only imagine what these pictures will do, and these pictures…you know you shouldn't keep them. Couldn't possibly bring them into your home. These were in a forgotten box for a reason; they have no role in your life anymore. You leap from your car out onto the parking lot, clutching the photos in hand while you stalk across the asphalt. Over the mouth of the trashcan you hold the evidence, where one drop would remove them from your life for forever. But you don't let them go. So you stand in the cold, thinking if you stare hard enough, they'll fall into the trash on their own, eventually. _

_There was only one day left in your apartment before the official move-in date of your new apartment, and still so much to pack. So you release the E-brake and drive home just as it starts to rain. Easing over the yellow speed bumps of the apartment complex, so it doesn't jostle the groceries too much._

_You reach for the doorknob, and for the first time in years, you hesitate. The pictures are stowed snuggly in your coat's interior pocket. Jessica shouldn't notice them there._


	10. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Sunday, April 28th, 2002

It always made its mark on Sam's mood, the road. Countless nights and days spent passing the time in the backseat, staring at the ceiling or the radio, watching the clock move. It was a response he had nearly no control over, at this point - that typical car tiredness. Sitting shotgun was unusual, but not so rare. Those were the times he was John's map-boy. And when falling asleep would save him hours of unwanted and unwelcome conversation.

And so it wasn't until he was being shaken in his seat that he realized he'd fallen straight asleep, pressed against the window with his seatbelt too tight across his hips. He looked to Dean, who withdrew him arm, smiling at him.

"Can't fall asleep on me, Sammy, you're my eyes and ears."

Sam ground at an eye with the back of his hand, stretching with a reach of the other. Looking around, the landscape didn't seem much different, and the clock proved he hadn't been away from the world for any longer than thirty minutes.

"I'll end up falling asleep, too," Dean went on. "Then we'll never see the Grand Canyon."

Sam's heart jacked up, reaching for the map that had fallen to the floor in his sleep. He looked out the window in time to catch a passing traffic sign. "We aren't on Forty-Nine North anymore, did you get off? We needed to take - "

"West, yeah, we're almost in Arkansas. Right…" Dean poked a finger on the map after a quick driver's glance. "Here. Just have to cross the river."

Sam sighed in relief. Suddenly his eyes felt ten times more tired than a second ago. He scrubbed at his other eye. Things always go wrong on the road, whether it's a flat, traffic, an accident, and Sam would go to the grave without it being his fault.

"Don't get so worried, every one falls asleep on the road in Mississippi." Dean was driving with one elbow on the sill, holding the wheel, his other hand resting on his leg, looking like he'd been driving all his life.

Sam asked, "How did you know to get off north?"

Dean checked the driver's side mirror. "I go into Arkansas pretty regularly for work, tow people back into Mississippi."

"You work at a tower?"

Dean hesitated half of a second. "No, I work at a mechanic's shop. But Lyon's one of the few towns around this way with a twenty-four-seven towing service." Glancing in the mirror again, Dean flipped his blinker and passed a semi in front of them. Merging back to the right, Dean asked, "You didn't know I'm a mechanic?"

The question brought Sam up short for a second. How was he supposed to know that in the first place? "It's not like I have any cars to bring in," Sam said, lacing the words with a laugh so they wouldn't come out rough.

"No, I mean - dad never…said anything? Mentioned it?"

Sam wondered if he was still asleep. "Was he supposed to?"

Dean's hand on the wheel gave one hard wring of the rubber, settling again as though it never happened. "I guess not," Dean said. They landed in a moment of silence, where Sam didn't have a thing to say and Dean wouldn't, but it was on his face, where Sam could see it from the corner of his eye.

"Like I don't exist there anymore," he mumbled.

And truly, he…didn't. Even his name, it was like Bloody Mary, not that Sam ever had the desire to talk about him, or to him. It had happened practically overnight, Dean leaving, and Sam had never been able to put an explanation to the feeling - waking up to a house that was suddenly dead, like the heart had stopped, adrift in the ocean with a shark swimming around his body, having no greater answer to the question "Where's my brother?" than, "He moved out, alright? And that's the last fucking work I'm saying about it?" A statement to which John had held true.

So Sam left it at that and asked no more questions, not to John and definitely not to Dean. Because if Sam wasn't worth the time or deserved and explanation, neither were they. But Dean's reaction now, something almost like anger but…slightly wider, a different shape, it seemed unwarranted, if Sam were being honest.

Whatever it meant, it was short lived. "Hey, you hungry for breakfast? There's a casino coming up that does a Sunday buffet. Right on the river."

—

The Isle of Capri Casino was the last vestige of Mississippi before crossing the river would take them to Arkansas, but they were not the only car. It seemed as though Mississippi and Arkansas alike all had the same idea, in the same parking lot, and it wasn't until the second pass through that Dean found a parking spot. He flashed a thumbs up as they climbed out of the car, and as they walked inside, Sam wondered aloud if this was what people did before church, gambling and buffet.

"People have their own alters," Dean said in reply.

The hotel entrance was for patrons only, forcing the pair to merge with the crowd milling through the casino instead. Sam kept his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt as he looked around at the melancholy crowd, most of them at the flashing slots, some following the signs for the restaurant. A different kind of alter indeed.

Dean slipped them away from the path with a tug on Sam's sleeve, diving deeper into the low light and lower cigarette smog among the machines, where the music of the slots and speakers was clearer. Dean stopped in front of one of the largest machine in the place, from what Sam could see - a sinking ship with the bow pointed to the ceiling in it's dying breath, the neon lights hitting the high points of Dean's mischievous smile. 'The Amazing Titanic' was written on the side in a font completely against the theme. Dean took his seat right in front, as a smoking man to his side, sitting at his own identical Amazing Titanic, shot an annoyed look at Dean's glee.

It was, as Sam learned, a nickel machine, of which Dean produced two from his coat pocket with a wink. He held one out for Sam to take, which he did, then clinked them together like a toast.

"For luck," Dean explained.

In the end Dean won nothing but a lot of flashing lights and noise. The monitor on the front played an animation of the Titanic sinking below the surface of the ocean, releasing a few bubbles as it sank to the bottom. Sam on the other hand, who at first refused to insert his own nickel at the fact that it was very illegal for him to gamble, till Dean told him to 'unclench' for the second time in as many days, won a total of five dollars.

Dean's expression went wide as the animation on the screen reset and the Titanic rose from the water to loud music and the sun breaking through the night, saved miraculously from nothing but Sam's patronage, while Dean hit the payout button that printed Sam's voucher.

"Since you took my luck, I'm taking this." He ripped the voucher at the serrated line and nodded towards the cage, where Dean presented his ticket and the employee eyed Sam nonetheless, sliding a five-dollar bill to Dean through the barred window.

They rejoined the flow of people walking to the buffet, out of the din and into the sunlight coming through the windows, signs on the walls pointing them towards the restaurant. Dean pulled the fiver out of his breast pocket, snapping it like a newspaper, then turned to smile at Sam. He dipped from the weight as Dean threw an arm across his shoulder, and fought for balance when he was pulled close into the one armed hug.

"Breakfast on my little brother," Dean said, teasing. "Guess the luck is mine after all." Sam laughed and pushed him off.

They found a place in line at the mouth of the restaurant between an older woman who'd clearly woken up for the purpose of buffeting, and were quickly followed by a family with enough kids to fill a classroom. Sam met Dean's eyes and the two shared the same sentiment - good timing.

Quicker than expected the two were met by a cheerful hostess and led to their table, still wet from being cleaned. Collecting their drink orders, she disappeared, leaving them to fend for themselves in the lawlessness of the buffet.

A few minutes later they reconvened at the table with plates in hand, sliding into the booth with huffs. Neither were strangers to buffets, given John's taste for cheap food while on the road, and Sam always wondered whether every buffet had the same grocery list. He always searched for and found the same things - pizza and ice-cream bars - no matter where they went, while Dean always came back with a plate of nachos, whether or not they were there for breakfast or dinner. Today was no exception.

Dean crunched into his chips across the table while Sam chewed, staring out the window. He always found times like these - out in public in a crowd of people, where you were just another ant in the crowd - were the easiest to just exist. To spare a few moments for nothing except your thoughts. Places like these expected nothing from you, once you were at your table. Staring out the window, onto the parking lot and, beyond that, the highway, Sam didn't feel homesick, exactly, but his heart was reaching for something. It was like he was holding his end of the fishing line while something tried to real him in, but from where? It wasn't until Dean asked his question that he realized it wasn't something, but a someone.

"So tell me, man, how long have you and Claudia been together?"

Sam tensed, rolling his jaw while he took the second to look at his brother. Dean stared back with open, curious eyes, taking a bite of his food, and Sam was struck with a sudden new sense of sadness. A year ago, Dean looked so different, was worried about such different things, surely. Sam too; he had been shorter, smaller, more naive. Then, pondering back even farther in time - two, three, even four years ago, Dean and Sam making things work in whatever house they lived in, in whatever bumpkin no-name city from four states ago because that's what Winchesters do, back when their woes were smaller and so were they.

Now Dean was wearing a day's growth of his beard across his chin and his upper lip, looking like a real-life person as though these subtle changes were the proof that he existed, right in front of Sam's nose. Not to forget Sam's own, too - the height at which he stood, the new depth of his voice, like it meant something. It was easier to believe people as nothing more than caricatures of themselves when they never changed, and harder so when they showed the passing of time. That was what made people real, their marks, Sam thought.

Sam had dissected the concept of Dean from his life so cleanly that to hear as trivial a question about his love life felt absurd. The world had him by the shoulders, forcing him back into his body. Running a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear, he felt more aware of his being than he'd been since…ever. In his entire life. He didn't know what to make of that.

"We were together for a just over six months," Sam answered.

Dean looked up, brows tensed. "What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"We only had a few weeks left till we reached seven months."

"No, not - " Dean's mouth kicked into overdrive to get the food out of his mouth faster. He swallowed hard, hand out as if offering the question. "What the fuck happened since yesterday?"

The idea of sharing the details - the shame of the confrontation, the hurt in Claudia's eye when she finally looked at him, how it was all his fault - was too embarrassing. Sam knew, though - Dean's standards for him were so high - too high. For some reason that wasn't a pedestal he wanted to fall from. He already felt the burn of Claudia's rejection, he didn't want to feel it grow stronger.

"It was…mutual," Sam said in answer. "Going to Stanford and all, you know…" If he alluded enough of the information, he wouldn't have to say it out loud, but Dean wasn't choosing his own conclusion. Only looked on, waiting for more, which Sam didn't give. He looked down and poked his fork at the food on his plate, but he didn't have the taste for it anymore.

"I got the feeling you two were going all the way," Dean said. "But that's how it is sometimes, I guess, baby brother. I'm really sorry to hear about it."

Sam felt the red rise in his face, getting consoled over a half truth. One hand came to swipe at his lip, which was twisted up in a grimace, as he looked into the crowd. A distraction, so he wouldn't have to look at Dean.

"I would, uh…" Sam coughed to clear his throat, suddenly froggy. "Rather not talk about it."

He flicked his eyes and met Dean's gaze, a mistake. The empathy in his face was too genuine. Sam didn't deserve it. Yet inn his chest, the guilt began to burn away, replaced by anger, frustration. It wasn't that Sam didn't need it, so much, but he didn't want it. Dean didn't exist in his and Claudia's relationship. There was no room in it for him, Sam had made sure, had packed that box so tightly with his plans and hopes and expectations that he couldn't fit anything more in it if he tried. Sam stilled. It was then that he began to wonder if he'd left any room in it for Claudia herself, to begin with.

Dean went back for a second plate. Sam did not. Twenty minutes passed with not much else said but the table never felt stiff, awkwardly quiet, like it would have with anyone else in these circumstances. Sam knew Dean and knew his language, the way his body spoke, which was one thing that hadn't changed, so far. There were no hurt feelings there, and, once Sam calmed down, the feeling became mutual. He had an ache in his gut, regardless, that didn't leave him.

Their server brought their check before rushing away again, and Dean was up and pulling a card from his wallet before Sam could make the move. He left for the check stand with a toss of the keys to Sam, and a promise to meet up at the car. Sam decided to go back the way they'd come.

The casino hadn't changed and neither had the faces, but he felt he had. It was a strangely mournful feeling. His arms were leaden, hanging on by a thread attached at his shoulders, weighing him down and slouching his back. As he walked he glimpsed The Titanic where his nickel had won, recalling Dean's face as he smiled at the flashing monitor. Sam decided, breaking through the front doors, that what he wanted was to forget - everything. The other end of his fishing line was out there, somewhere, pulling him towards, which he realized then he was craving, anonymity. The sun warmed his face, the wind blew his hair, and with it some of his troubles.

The realization came as clear to him then as the blue sky overhead, clean as water. If his plans were falling apart around him, then so be it. He could no longer count the number of tread marks that had run them over. And he would never build them back up. But he wasn't going back to Mississippi. The second he crosses that bridge into Arkansas it would be over, simple as that. If the house was on fire, you got out of it.

Sam turned the key in the lock of the car and sat behind the wheel, easing in carefully so he didn't make a single sound. The map sat on the dash where he'd left it. Besides the breeze and the sounds of the road, Sam was sitting in silence.

He could do it; he could leave. Drive. The gas tank was full, the keys were in his hand - now in the ignition. He had a duffle full of clothing, and two hundred dollars in his wallet. Dean wouldn't have far to walk, being only half and hour outside of Lyon. Sam clenched the wheel, glanced in the mirror. As far as John knew, Sam would be away for another week, plenty of time to travel plenty of miles. At the end of it was Sam's birthday. John couldn't do a thing about it if he wanted to - Sam was eighteen after all - but that fact made these plans seem sweeter.

But punctuating every thought, swinging back into focus like a pendulum, was the image of Dean sitting as he was at the table, apologizing for Sam's situation. Then another, Dean tackling Raymond at the party to help him. Sam reached up idly and traced the bandage on his head. If he'd really wanted to drive away right then, he would have…right? What did it mean that he couldn't?

A deep, hollow sound jarred Sam awake and back into his body. Dean had slapped the hood of the car, now walking around the driver's door Sam didn't close, grinning in the sunlight with his overshirt trailing behind. "The road's waiting, ready to go, Sammy?"

Sam spared a look through the windshield. A short ways down the highway was the bridge, the murky water of the Mississippi River below, and, on the other side, Arkansas. It's time to get out of the fire, he thought.

—

They took some time in front of their map, tracing some of the lines with a pen Dean found in the glove compartment. An easy breeze drifted through their open doors, and they were in no hurry. Dean guessed they would be in Oklahoma before the end of the day, making it through the whole of Arkansas, which he said was 'not entirely a bad thing', which was at odds with another Dean-ism - "It's a roadtrip, not a trip to the store. You don't blow your load fast as you can - most of the fun happens along the way." Reasoning they would get there when they get there, Sam stowed the map and settled into his seat, taking in the sun and warm air like a cat in the window, watching Dean drive. In a quick moment they were joining traffic. Then came the telltale bob-and-weave of the shocks as they met the bridge.

Beams and wires above them crossed the sun's path and painted the world in stripes of racing shadows. In an almost tangible moment of a switch being thrown, halfway across the bridge Sam felt a shift in the energy of the air, even though it didn't really change, and he knew without a doubt that things were finally behind him. He had spent his entire life crossing state lines like they were nothing more than doorways, in both practice and theory. This time, Sam remembered that doors could be closed, even locked, and now he'd felt that happen. He grabbed the crank and rolled the window down, taking a breath of the air that hit his face like he needed it. Didn't smell any different than it had in the parking lot, and the water in the river wasn't flowing any cleaner than it had a hundred feet in the other direction. It meant something different, though.

The wind against Sam's face grew in force alongside a new rush of noise. Dean had rolled his window, too, flashing a smile across the car while it swelled with air. He gave a whoop in joy, slapped Sam's knee, every gesture of his body showing that he was feeling good, especially when he threw a five-fingered slap across the face of the tape deck and loaded the next bit of their soundtrack. Another dip in the road, and they were back on solid land.

Halfway through Metallica's The Black Album, not more than thirty miles later, a ringing phone reached over the notes of the music and into their ears, while Dean turned the volume down and Sam turned to hunt through the backseat. He'd found Dean's phone in his coat pocket and brought it back to the front of the car.

With a look at the screen, Sam frowned involuntarily. "It's dad."

The phone was snatched from Sam's hand almost as soon as he said the words. Dean clutched the phone as it rang again, his face suddenly business, his jaw tight, yet his eyes didn't leave the road.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked.

Dean sighed. "I was hoping to warn you before this happened, but I forgot all about it."

"What?"

He swallowed. "Dad didn't give me permission to take you."

Sam's brow fell. "But you took me anyway?"

"Not exactly." Dean dug his thumb in the crack of the phone. "I never actually asked in the first place."

Sam turned away and looked out the windshield, dazed, but there was apparently no time for that. Dean flipped his phone open mid-ring and put it to his ear.

"Hey, dad."

A moment of silence.

"Yes, sir, he's with me."

Silence. Sam strained closer to Dean but couldn't make anything out passed the noise of the car. Or the blood in his ears.

"Actually, I can't do that. We're already in Arkansas."

John was yelling into the phone, then; Sam didn't need the closeness of the car to hear after that. At the same time Dean pulled it away from his ear, leaning away with a grimace. This time Sam couldn't make out the words, not because of volume, but tangibility. Dean met eyes with Sam, took a breath, and went back in. All Sam could do was listen, and wait.

"Not too far, but I can't exactly flip a U - no, dad, he's graduating, and I - and this is my gift." Quiet. "Because some people would rather do something else than spend their birthday on a ghost hunt in Salt Lake. Listen, dad, we're going to the Grand Canyon, it's a three day drive there - dad, listen to me." Sam's eyes grew at the forcefulness of Dean's words. "Yes, the Grand Canyon. Three days there, one for the Canyon, and three days back. You're going to Salt Lake, chances are you'll pass us on the highway. But I'm taking my brother somewhere we can enjoy his birthday." A pause. "Of course I'm not, dad. We'll call every day, you don't have to worry."

Hearing only half of the conversation was driving Sam into a pit, but he didn't know who was more unlucky at that point; him, for only hearing Dean, or Dean himself, for having to talk to John.

"Yes, sir, I will. No, trust me," he said. His voice suddenly dipped farther into seriousness. "I haven't forgotten. Yes. Hang on." He plugged the microphone with his chest and asked Sam, "You forgot your phone, didn't you?"

Sam thought, then checked his memory, slapping his pockets.

"Don't worry about it, guy. He already knew the answer." Dean went back to the call. "Now he does. He can use mine. We will be. Yes, like I said. Have fun in Salt Lake." He snapped the phone closed and held it in the air, almost as if it was no longer a phone, but an animal he didn't know what to do with before it bit him. His chest rose and fell quickly, his eyes wide. Sam just stared.

"I can't believe I said all that," was all Dean offered after a moment, still holding the phone away from himself, still staring at the road.

"And what did he say?"

"That I better bring you home in one piece." Dean let go of a breath, long and heavy. Like a wet dog, he shook his head, shedding the conversation all at once. This time when he looked to Sam, he was grinning again. "Now let's get to Arizona."


	11. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sunday, April 26th, 2002

The pair drove on in the stillness that follows storms, fragile and expectant, neither saying a thing. This lasted for all of five minutes, however, until Dean flicked the blinker and rumbled onto the shoulder of the road, a cloud of dust blooming behind their tires. Sam watched with bated breath and his hand gripping tight to the rubber door handle as they came to a halt. A wave of emotion seemed to come over Dean as his head fell to his hands. Sam didn't say a word, but what would he have - he wasn't sure how to console this year-older version of Dean. They stayed this way until the dust settled around them, Dean forcing his fingers in circles over his eyes. Finally Sam took a breath; if he didn't know how, that just meant he could learn to again. He reached to the dash and turned on the hazard lights, then looked at his brother.

"Hey," Sam said gently.

Dean didn't look up, but bobbed against his seatbelt, letting out a huff, a laugh. "I knew something would happen eventually, but I…don't know, I guess - " He sat back, sucking in a breath. His cheeks were dry but his eyes were not, red and glistening in the corners. He let out a laugh when they landed on Sam. "Part of me hoped he wouldn't call."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "He's an hour's drive away, what is he going to do? Hunt you down?"

He meant it as a joke but Dean didn't laugh. "Yeah, actually."

Dean brought up a hand to wipe his eyes, and Sam noticed it wasn't quite steady. "Sorry," Dean said, "I just need a breather."

"Yeah," Sam said. "No worries." He watched Dean unbuckle himself and pull the pin locking his door, letting in the sound of the highway while he climbed out, the car going silent again when it closed. Sam saw him force his hands in his pockets as he leaned back against the window, head hung low.

For no longer than a moment Sam let the tension settle, let Dean get a breath, before letting himself out of the car too, and picking his way around the back to lean against the car, next to Dean.

They stood this way for a time, watching the cars scream by, letting the wind blow their worries away. They didn't speak; they didn't need to, Sam found. That much hadn't changed. It seemed to Sam that all Dean needed was someone to sit with. He was glad he could give that. Although, it dawned on him then, standing in the Arkansas sun, that the next few days were going to be more than a simple road trip or a chance to get away, but what it would be exactly he had no guesses. Already the impossible had happened - John had let him out of his sight, and although it would happen in leu of phones calls home every morning, afternoon, and night, it had happened, and now the door of possibilities stood wide open. Anything could happen. Maybe he was going to find somewhere out there for him. Maybe he really would never have to go back to Lyon because home was somewhere else now, waiting for him to discover it. That seemed exciting.

After a short while of watching the long grass dance in the wind and kicking the dirt, Dean finally looking up from the ground, flashed Sam an appreciative smile, then threw his arm around his shoulders, pulling him over, holding him close. Sam let him. And in this way they made a little bridge of their own, and began crossing it those few inches at a time.

Back in the car Sam recalled a place on their map called Blackton, Arkansas, a town practically one-quarter the size of Lyon, yet still the home to a registered historic building. Though he looked better than he had Dean didn't argue much when Sam brought up making the stop. Neither had been to the Palmer House, as it was called, and it seemed like bad luck to pass something like that up. Like Dean said, all the things you find along the way. He drove in a new quiet focus, his leg bouncing against the door nonetheless.

Admittedly, it wasn't much to look at in the end, but Dean, as he killed the engine and closed the door behind him, let out a whistle.

"I wouldn't mind me a house like this. When was this place was built, Sammy?"

"According to the plaque, eighteen-seventy-three." Sam stared at the dull brass placard inlayed in a square of concrete set before the wooden porch while he wound the film in his camera, snapping a photo of the bland house, for posterity's sake. Dean shared a surprised huh, hands on his hips as he stared at the dormers in the roof, walking to Sam's side. They weren't far off the road and Blackton was hardly large enough to call anything other than a settlement, but the sound from the highway was choked back by the countless trees that surrounded them, and Sam had to admit that this smaller clearing in the trees felt like another dimension entirely. It was a feeling he always noticed, in these rural vestiges of survival and history, that you were breathing air from another time, or world, even. The sun gleamed brightly off the clear glass windows as if in agreement.

He was winding up the film a second time when Dean strode over and plucked it from his hands, flipping it around in his grip and pulling Sam close. Dean held the camera away from them. He was immortalized on film in the middle of a laugh, Dean's fingers in his ribs.

"How'd you get so much taller than me already, kid?" Dean asked, tossing back the camera. He was looking at Sam with a tilted head, squinting, like he wouldn't be able to see him otherwise.

"Well," Sam shrugged, "it's been a long time."

Dean nodded a few times, expression unchanged. "That it has." Then, with a gesture to the car, "Come on, let's roll."

And so they were back on the highway, solitude disappearing behind them. Dean produced a different tape from the box behind his seat and passed it off to Sam, who then loaded the tape deck, pressing play.

"Fine music for a fine time," Dean had said, when Sam wouldn't have considered Boston's self-titled the same level of 'fine' that Dean's silly posh accent had let on, exactly. More Than A Feeling was just fine, though, and they drove on anyway. It couldn't be said that Arkansas was famous for its rolling hills or green pastures but Sam admitted after half an hour that it wasn't bad to look at, eliciting a tsk from Dean as they overtook a fifth wheel.

"Anything looks good flying passed the window at seventy-miles-an-hour."

The road carried them along for another forty-five minutes, Dean flipping his Boston tape for the fourth time, passing exits for Keevil, a large town named Monroe, and one humorously named Fredonia - which made Dean laugh - when he asked Sam to pull out the map.

"If I'm remembering right, we're coming up on Little Rock pretty quick. Make sure we're on the right track if you would."

It seemed a little of an odd request, but Sam obliged. They'd been on the same stretch once they'd passed Fredonia, and just like Dean said, their hand-drawn line of pen was taking them straight through a dense cluster of secondary roads in a town named Little Rock.

"We're good," Sam said, "why?"

"There's that school there, yeah? The high school." Sam didn't say anything, because he didn't. "You know," Dean went on, "the school that accepted black students, back in the fifties." Dean looked over quizzically, and Sam could only shrug. Dean scoffed as he faced back to the road. "And you want to go to college."

Another half hour passed with two more flips of the Boston tape. Before Dean could go after it a third time, Sam was there first, ejecting it from the player and stuffing it back in its case. He ignored Dean's perturbed expression while he tuned the radio.

"Which one of us is driving again?" Dean asked, glancing back and forth between Sam and the road.

"You - driving me crazy. If I have to hear Peace of Mind again…" He dissolved away as a new favorite - You Get What You Give by New Radicals - came into focus through the static; where Sam started waving his head in time with the guitar, panting a finger at Dan, who could only stare sidelong out of exaggerated horror. They rolled into North Little Rock, Sam singing along and promising Dean that he did, whether he wanted it or not, have the music in him.

The car jostled as they crossed another bridge, Dean mumbling, "This is why I don't let kids touch the radio," all the way.

Little Rock proper was different from its northern neighbor in name only, and after getting off a second bridge, it was short work finding Dean's school with Sam behind the map and Dean still murmuring about music these days. Truth be told the fact that Dean wanted to visit this kind of place to begin with was surprising to Sam, but he was feeling some kind of excitement, apparently. He'd checked his watch and readjusted his belt nearly every twenty seconds since they'd left the highway, seemingly looking everywhere but the road. Sam waited for more insight but was given none, so he went on and pointed the way without any more questions.

Their stop at the famous Arkansas high school suffered from what much of their trip would, at the end of the road - spontaneity. Interest of Sam's own had swelled along with the rising brick building over the tree line as they turned their last corner and parked on the curb, but it was short lived. While Sam was preoccupied staring at the summer sun lighting crests and windows, Dean was peering at something else.

'"Tours available by twenty-four hour appointment only,'" he read, squinting at a small white sign Sam hadn't seen till then. '"We are sorry for the inconvenience.'"

Sam's shoulders slumped a little, staring back up at the school. A pond of water encircled by green summer grass sat unbothered before rising concrete stairs, reflecting the pale color of the bricks, where the traverser would be deposited in front of the school like an ant before a mountain. Sam wondered, if they'd come at any other time, if the pond would wake and turn into a fountain.

He was unfolding the map once again when the click of Dean's seatbelt interrupted.

"Well, let's go see the fuss," Dean said, lifting one leg after the other from the car. Sam stared after for a moment until his brain caught up. He tore out of the car himself and jogged to catch up with Dean, who was already climbing the first set of steps.

"Can we even be here?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged, climbing now the second set of stairs. "I don't know, but we are. Worst someone can do is ask us to leave. Not like school's in session right now anyway." He looked about them again. Sam searched his face as Dean searched the area. They were alone. Nonetheless, Dean seemed…expectant.

It didn't seem there was much at all to see without a tour guide, when it came to the outside; they walked around the western grounds, taking in and talking about the facade - which really was grande if anyone asked Sam - but that seemed as far as they could take themselves without extra permissions. The tall peaks of the roof and the high glass windows reflecting the blue sky put a wrench in Sam's heartbeat. More than once he had to pause and spare a moment to stare, let the wistful emotions run their course. He'd never felt the desire to be in California so strongly, least of all when he walked into his school in Clarksdale, where the desire to leave was born from the water-stained roof tiles and not from this glamour of higher education.

Out of curiosity, Dean had tried the front doors, peering through the glass inlaid when the locked refused him. Not much to look at, though, but distant lockers.

"You remember that huge high school in Seattle?" Dean had asked into the glass, his hand cupped around his eyes the better to see inside. Sam had joined him hesitantly, unprepared for Dean's follow up - "Made out with this weird girl during my math class once."

"Dean."

"That was the same school they made Justin McCarry ask me out to prom."

Sam looked to Dean in mild surprise. "You got to go to your prom?"

"No, as far as dad knows." Dean winked, then turned to look inside once more. "Sucked Justin off in the stall in the bathroom. Joke was on him, huh?"

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, shaking his head where it fell against the door. "That's what I get for asking, I guess."

Descending the concrete steps, Sam let go of a disgruntled sigh, pausing at the bottom. Dean was stood at the top step like a watchdog, surveying the grounds as he'd been the entire time, caught in some scent on the wind. But as the seconds passed and Dean squinted harder at the space around them, Sam's skin grew chilled in the sun.

"You coming?" Sam asked. Then louder, "Dean."

He came back to himself by way of a sigh and a small shake of his head. "Was just really hoping for a tour, is all."

Sam weighed the statement. "Yeah," he said, eyeing Dean.

Finally Dean called for an all-aboard, darting down the last of the steps and marching towards the car with Sam in tow. He stopped Dean part of the way by the shirt and brought him to the edge of the small fountain instead. Sam lifted the camera to his eye and caught the picture - a cool-colored shot of the pairs' reflection against the bright sky in the water, algie along the bottom.

"You don't seem…upset," Sam said as he buckled his seatbelt, stowing his camera.

"Why would I be?" Dean fastened his own belt, but not before flipping open his phone, looking at the screen for a second. He closed it hard. Cranking his window, he went on, "Because we didn't get a tour? We still got to see the place."

"Yeah," Sam said again, watching Dean.

He turned the key, bringing the engine back to life. His grin looked as normal as it could. "Point us on, Sammy. Find us a gas station so I can piss."

They decided on a Shell station in North Little Rock just before the on-ramp toward Oklahoma. The clock read a cool 10:47 AM, and Sam was surprised that the day was still so young. It wasn't time to eat, even yet, and after a peek at the map Dean thought they could make a nice dent in their miles before it would be time to break. He wanted to be well into Oklahoma before they called it quits for the day. Sam, who had absolutely no intentions of going back to Mississippi, didn't care much one way or the other.

He parted with Dean at the pumps in search for the bathrooms, finding them around the back of the building, and in need of the key. When he returned, unlocking the door and flipping the light, his mind had already fallen back to the way Dean's stare had made him feel like he'd jumped in that pond, a wash of cold against the late spring morning.

He looked like he'd been hunting something. Any of the countless 'errands' Sam had been on, willingly and unwillingly - someone inevitably ended up with that look on their face, when that sixth sense picked up on something that shouldn't be there. What made Sam the most uncomfortable was the fact that Sam hadn't noticed anything himself.

He shivered. He hit the handle on the urinal and crossed to the sink, stuck his hands under hot water. What had Dean seen out there? Sam had hoped to leave these kinds of things at home but maybe he needed to accept that the world was never truly safe, whether or not John was around to rile things up. He just wished Dean could maybe be a little less obvious about the monsters around them, let Sam indulge in a little ignorance.

Sam broke from the store front and walked back to the car, where it waited for him at the pump. Better to keep a quiet mouth and open ear, Sam decided. This was their second day together after a year apart; it seemed too soon to fuss.

He reached the driver's door, coming up behind where Dean sat slouched on the trunk, legs dangling against the bumper, but whatever words Sam had building in his brain died in his throat. Dean was on the phone.

"…get you to answer, where are they?"

His voice betrayed his lax posture. Or rather, exemplified it, the closer Sam looked. Dean was folded over the mouthpiece, talking low.

"No, no one was there," he replied. "You told them the high school, didn't you?" A pause. "Yeah, well, get it fast, if you don't mind? Sam's coming back." He pulled the phone away from his ear, closing the phone to end the call. Sam stood three feet away with his hands stuffed in his pockets and watched Dean reopen and close the phone, stare at the blank display for a second before closing it again.

"Dad call back?" Sam took his next steps like he'd been walking up all along, yet Dean leapt off the trunk like a spooked cat regardless. He saw Sam, though, and sighed, laughing.

"Fuck, don't sneak up on me like that, slasher."

Sam cracked a grin to keep things up. He knew that wasn't their father on the other line. "What'd he want?"

"What?"

"Dad, what did he want?"

"Oh," Dean said like he'd finally caught on, gripping the phone. "That was your guidance councilor."

"Ah - my…what?"

"Ms. Gonzalez." Dean said it like it answered all the questions. "I needed to make sure you were excused next week, you know…since you'll be with me."

For a single breath Sam didn't have a word. "Oh…"

They stared at each other for a second, Sam facing the decision of trust or distrust. No doubt Dean could be lying to make the situation seem better than it was. But…Sam reminded himself - benefit of the doubt. A second chance was irrelevant in nature if it was rescinded without reason. So maybe he should stop looking for one.

"She's going to call back," Dean went on. "Once she can verify dad's note with the office."

"Dad wrote a note?"

"No," Dean said plainly, smiling how he would at a compliment. "But she owes me a favor."

"My - Ms. Gonzalez, the guidance councilor, owes you a favor?"

Dean pocketed his phone, readjusting his coat across his shoulders. "Like you said, my brother," accented with a clap on Sam's arm. "It's been a while."


	12. October 28th, 2005

_October 28th, 2005_

_Dean at the gas pump in Lyon, before you both had even got on the road. Then Dean again, shrouded in the glare from the rearview mirror, but very clearly him. A picture of the both of you in front of a tall brick house. You remember, Dean took the picture one handed because no one else had been around. You would have forgotten the name of the house completely if you hadn't taken the shot of the bronze placard. Dean asleep in the backseat of your guys' car, probably somewhere in Kentucky. All the photos, an explicit A-to-Z of a time you removed yourself from, and done so willingly. You know the order now without having to flip to the next photo._

_Some of the moments you'd forgotten about completely but recognized as you saw them - ones of yourself in national parks and the most ridiculous water fountain you'd ever seen, and the interesting things you saw on the roadside or in hotels. Then, some you had no clue were even taken - those were mostly of you when you weren't looking. And even fewer were the ones that didn't turn out in the first place but still had an energy about them._

_But most you do remember. They had taken a holiday from your memory, or had came from the smaller handful you had to remind yourself to forget. All important at the time you took them, yet, all…_

_After a week or so you'd decided to keep the photos under the seat in your car, rather than inside your house, where you were keeping the letters. That was too dangerous, you decided, with nowhere they could be locked away, which only meant, though, that you found yourself flipping through them while you waited for classes, or before you went back inside after getting home. The time you said you were going to get a movie but spent twenty extra minutes in the parking lot alone._

_All of your boxes are in your new apartment waiting to be opened but you can't stop from drifting like a sea-thrown piece of wood back to the dusty shoebox you'd pulled from your closet, now in the back of your new one, but at least this time you've managed to stay in bed. The mattress shifts and an arm comes to lay across your chest, Jessica's loose curls feathered out around the pillow. Sleep lately has been more habitual than anything but for the past couple of weeks you've been able to tell people - you just aren't used to the new place yet._


	13. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sunday, April 28th, 2002

Almost straight away the surrounding scenery had become more attractive than any had been so far, where **Sam** was concerned, almost like nature itself had wanted to get away from Mississippi, too; less than five minutes passed before they found a small, green park, and its bordering town Crystal Hill, another fifteen when the earth opened around the lush trees and revealed Grassy Lake, then the larger Lake Conway, then the glistening Arkansas river running alongside their car for the rest of the two hour ride like a faithful companion, sharing the clear blue sky in its reflection. Granted, Dean had the better view, being on the driver's side, but Sam didn't mind looking at the both of them, he was finding.

Not often does time leave itself so easily understood, read like the words in a book, but Sam saw its work the more he looked at his brother. Earlier, at the buffet, and now, in their driving, it fascinated him; everyday of the missing year was clear as day in the cut of his jaw and the shape of his hands yet Sam was beginning to see that which was harder, where the years took up the rooms behind his eyes, in the way he moved his mouth as he formed his words. Sam remembered him speaking faster, harder, almost to beat the words into you, a year ago. Not entirely the case anymore. It was becoming clearer that Sam wasn't on the road with his old older brother. Things really were different. _I wonder how I've changed_, Sam thought.

Sam's councilor had called back just as they'd passed a small highway town called Manifee, about thirty minutes into the latest stretch of driving, which Dean answered without glancing at the phone. Sam heard a lot of _mhms_ and affirmations coming from Dean's half, asking once, "That's a little out of the way, don't you think?", which she evidently didn't, and, "That doesn't really leave us much time," though it didn't seem she cared about that, either. Because once he'd hung up, sighing, he looked to Sam. "We have to make a detour."

Sam studied Dean for a moment. "Okay," he said, curiously.

"She wants us to make a stop in Oklahoma City."

"This is starting to seem more like a trade and less of a favor."

Dean flicked his eyes towards Sam without turning his head. He shrugged.

"What's she want from Oklahoma City?"

"It's the state capitol, she says she wants a souvenir," Dean said.

"For what?"

Dean shrugged. "Probably her coffee table."

"No, in return for what?"

The car lurched as Dean avoided the car in front of them, who'd slowed for no reason. Swerving into the other lane and passing them, Dean went on. "To make sure your excused absence goes through."

"And if we don't?"

"I mean, I doubt she'll toss it, but I…also kind of owe her, too."

Sam stared for a moment, thinking. "Are you two…together, or something?"

But Dean denied that, too, making a frown. "She keeps an eye on you during school for me, since I can't do it myself," was his answer, "and every so often I…work on her car for no charge."

"Do you work on her car, or…_work on her car_?"

"What? What's the difference?"

Sam had began suspecting as much, that Dean and Ms. Gonzalez had had some kind of arrangement where Sam's business was concerned, and he'd had to admit, he was actually…kind of touched. The last year had passed where Sam believed he truly had no one on the earth besides himself and Claudia. But that hadn't been the case, apparently.

So he considered all these things as they drove, staring at the trailing lake and his brother. They talked about Dean's work and how he needed up at the mechanic's, behind the wheel of the tow truck. And then on to Sam's schooling, present and future. Dean had been careful not to mention Claudia, Sam noticed, ever accommodating. After a short while, though, Sam couldn't hold the question in his mouth anymore, like a hot coal on his tongue.

"Does any of this for Ms. Gonzalez have to do with…what I saw, at her house this morning?"

The lazy smile on Dean's mouth faltered but didn't fall, for a moment acting as if he hadn't heard right. Then he thought better of it.

"So you saw that."

"I saw something, but I don't want to assume. But I guess I was right."

He could see the different words forming behind Dean's lips, all abandoned as another, better set of words surfaced, over and over.

"If it is, it's fine," Sam cut in. "I mean, not _fine_, but I just mean, everyone has something, I guess."

Dean's face had paled, brows pulled down. His hands were tight on the wheel. "What…do you mean?"

Sam shifted uncomfortable. "Just that - drugs are messy and, you know, and, uh…I don't want to see something bad happen, is all."

Dean waited a moment, then said, slowly, "That's very nice of you. But, it's really not a big deal, you don't have to worry about anything."

The rush from the road filled the empty noise for a few moments.

"So, what, we're selling this bag from Ms. Gonzalez, or…moving them?"

"It's - " Dean cut off and cleared his throat, looking out of sorts now. "Technically already sold, I guess, I'm just…" Dean gestured his free hand in a way that made Sam imagine he were releasing a bird, or butterfly. "She says if I don't, we'll have to be back next Monday, instead of the Tuesday I asked for."

"What? This is a bit dangerous for just an extra day, don't you think?" He hadn't the heart yet to tell Dean he wasn't going back for his diploma. Or anything for that matter. Maybe by the time they reached Arizona, he thought.

"Well, she done me a lot of favors, like I said. Looked out for you." A pause. "That's worth a lot more to me than how I'm making up for it, if you ask me."

That warmed Sam's heart. He sat for a quietly for a while, letting it travel through the rest of his body.

"The meeting's set up for a cafe near the capitol building, but. We'll worry about it when the time comes."

And so at the request of their empty stomachs and full bladders, they were off the highway and on the hunt in a city named Alma, which according to their map had a small park named Popeye Park, where Dean insisted they must stop to eat. They narrowed down a super center and picked some food inside. Sam followed Dean outside into the afternoon sunlight, but had to stop before colliding into Dean's back, where he was staring at the headline of the local newspaper through the glass of the dispenser.

"'Fourth body found on Gibson Ranch,'" Dean read aloud, '"Heart reported missing on arrival.''' Finishing the sentence, Dean made an _oh boy_ noise, eyes gone wide. He traded his grocery bag to the other hand so he could dig in his pockets, presumably for a quarter, but Sam cut him off with his voice.

"Absolutely not."

Dean stilled, poised with his hand halfway through his pocket and half a grin on his face. "What do you mean?"

"I am not going on a hunt. Not here, not on our trip."

Dean's grin morphed into an expression of understanding, the moment of fire in his eyes doused to smoke. "Missing hearts, Sam, we could wrap that up in a day - no time flat."

Sam bore into Dean with his eyes, immovable. The worry he'd felt in the bathroom in Little Rock was back in his chest, making him hot as it swam together with the bit of anger that was beginning to bloom. "If I wanted to hunt I would have gone to Salt Lake. Promise me."

"Come on man, it's not a big deal." Dean's eyes moved around Sam's face in the short pause that followed.

"I don't want to die before I get to see the Grand Canyon with my brother. Promise me. No hunts or…monster stuff." A small voice in his head added a cursory please to the end of the sentence, but Sam kept it in. He refused to beg, and not his own brother, of all people.

Dean opened his mouth to speak back, his hand pointed towards the newspaper as though to make some sort of point, but in the end, he thought better. He shut his mouth and closed his hand, but stared still at Sam, giving a nod. Dean played off the shift in the mood with a sniffle and scratch to his ear, back to frivolity in an instant with the bounce he put in his step while he turned to walk to the car.

"Thank you. I appreciate it," Sam said to his back. He followed Dean to the car, and nothing more was said on that. They parked at the curb along the Popeye Park with the cranking noise of Dean's emergency break, climbing out with their grocery bags in hand. They crossed the street to the grass.

Or, Sam was. Dean was stuck in place, transfixed in the direction of a brass-colored statue in the middle of a water fixture, right in the middle of the small park. In the shape of Popeye the Sailor.

"This is one of the weirdest things I've ever seen," Dean said, amazedly. Sam came up alongside his brother, their mouths open in matching awe. He could have made the argument that they'd seen much stranger - the vampires they'd trapped in the daycare; the time the ghost of that widow was haunting the new wife's mirrors - but found he couldn't. He raised his camera up and snapped a picture of the effigy.

The grass was soft and cool underneath while they at on top of a blanket Dean ran back to pull from his trunk, the sandwiches working just fine to fill their stomachs. When he was done eating, Dean slid out of his coat and tossed it over his already discarded boots. He lay back, hands thrown behind his head and his socked-feet crossed at the ankle. Sam had been watching the Popeye statue and the jets of water that shot through the air, but now found himself studying Dean's forearms, the crooks of his elbows, looking for pockmarks but hoping for clean, unmarked skin. That was what he found, but though it meant no needles, it also meant no _needles_ \- and Sam wouldn't get answers without first asking questions. So he kept them to himself, begrudgingly. He chose to trust Dean's words instead, however begrudgingly.

In a few short moments Sam heard the breath grow slow in Dean's chest, saw his eyes flick about under his lids. Sam yawned then himself. Stealing Dean's coat for a pillow, he ditched his own shoes and fell back on the blanket as well, letting his thoughts drift away like the clouds.

—

Oklahoma City was large. So large that it had its own magnified page in the map, yet **Sam** still held the map to his nose, guiding Dean in and through the city. The capital building would be hard to miss - it was the _capital building_, but as the distance between them and Oklahoma had shortened and the meeting time began growing nearer and nearer, Dean had been flung back into the anxious state he'd taken in Little Rock, despite the fact that they had yet to hit a single red light. Sam was doing his best to make sure they made it and did so on time but Dean's cherry hot nerves were starting to affect his own. Once this was done, and the favor was paid, then Sam would begin thinking of what to do about all…this. The business of Dean and his councilor, whatever these 'favors' really were. If there was anything to be done about it at all.

Now the capital building was tall in the distance and grew closer with each mile. It reached into the Oklahoma sky above the treeline, growing dim with the beginnings of some cloud cover, but the windows gleamed in the sun nonetheless. The cafe they were on the hunt for was one business in a row of them, a small strip mall down the road from the capitol building. After the final stretch of highway and a handful of missed parking spots, Dean was opening his door no sooner than he pulled the emergency brake, moving to toss open the trunk. He was in it up to his waist by the time Sam caught up. They had decided on a parking spot in the middle of Egypt, the better to be away from a crowd, which only seemed more suspicious as far as Sam was concerned. The only person around for a few yards was a man a few cars down, holding a cigarette to his mouth with one hand and a paperback in the other.

Sam finally looked back to Dean. "Should I, like, have nine-one-one dialed, before we get in there?"

Dean grunted as he shoved his bag out of the way in a hard grip, revealing another layer of trunk behind that. "God I hope not."

The pair walked through the cooling breeze and wove through the cars, hands stuffed nervously in their pockets, where in Dean's rested the same small velvet drawstring bag Sam had seen passed between them that morning. Glancing about them as they approached the strip of businesses, Sam noticed most the number of people in the area and wondered if any of them were the ones they were meeting. Ms. Gonzalez hadn't given him any names, Dean had said. Only to be in the cafe at five. It was currently 4:47.

"This is a little more public than I was…expecting," Dean commented as he ushered Sam inside through a tall glass door. The air inside was warm and rich with the smell of espresso, with a few pairs of customers at the smattering of tables, a row of more customers along a bar top counter. And he had no idea who he was looking for. So it was that Dean spared not a second before going to the register and ordering them a coffee each.

"Can I get an extra cup?" Dean gestured like he was shaking an imaginary cup, then nodded in thanks when the bored barista passed one over. The smile on Dean's face slipped away as soon as he turned around. At the soda fountain, it wasn't ice or water he went for. From his pocket and into the empty cup, Dean prodded the bag inside, touching it like it was a snake ready to bite, took the lid from his own cup, and sealed the new. He winked at Sam, and the two swam through the small crowd to a table that was neither in the dark corners nor the main attraction. Though it was only the two of them, their table sat four. They waited.

Dean's leg bounced all the while, wobbling the loose tabletop, eyeing those coming and going, hands wrapped around the fake coffee as if it wasn't just that.

Sam hadn't woken up that morning believing this was how he would spend his day - in fact, he could remember hoping for the exact _opposite_. Sitting with his arms crossed, listening to Dean's low, conspiratorial instructions, he felt like he was a character from a movie.

"Don't talk to them," Dean said, "don't look at them, if they offer anything to you, don't take it, don't give them your name. And for God's sake, since you won't stay in the car - "

"Nope," Sam interjected into his cup.

" - let me do the talking. They're going to take their shit, and leave, and then so are we."

"No argument on that."

The number of people coming and going was relatively large. Sam thought it was going to be impossible to narrow them down in this collection of people. Each one who glanced their way made Sam suddenly nervous, thinking, this is them, but it never was, and he got worried for nothing.

"Hey," Sam said after a few minutes passed, "maybe I should sit somewhere else so they don't get the wrong - "

Dean held up a hand, looking at the crowd. A couple, one man and one woman, walked in their direction in a way the regular passersby hadn't yet, their path set straight towards Sam and Dean's table. When they met eyes, Sam knew this was them.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting to see, but he learned right away this wasn't it. The man was perfectly average save for the severity with which his eyes were bulged open. The woman walked at his side in plain shoes and frayed denim shorts, her hair done up in a bun and a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. Its fabric was thin and light without its wares, bouncing limply against her leg with each step.

"Winchester," she said in a perfectly normal tone, but Sam's brow shot up at the sound of a English accent.

Dean nodded. "How'd you know?"

"River said to be on the look-out for someone who looked constipated. Sounds like she was right."

Dean blinked, shocked, while Sam bit his tongue to stop from grinning. "Well, she has me all figured out. I got you a cup."

The woman took the offering and passed it to the man at her back, never cutting off her eye contact with Dean. Sam watched the man lift it up as though to drink, but skipped his lips and put the mouthpiece right under his nose. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath. He let go of his breath as if he'd really taken a drink. Sam was mildly bothered - the guy hadn't blinked once since they'd shown up. Then he remembered, he wasn't supposed to be looking at them.

"Smells right," he said, voice clearer than Sam expected from his wild eyes. He met his companion's stare when she turned to him, sharing a nod. Taking the lid from the cup, the mousy woman opened her bag and dumped the small velvet pouch inside. Sam kept his eyes there, though, watched the woman close her bag and pat the velcro better closed, because if Sam hadn't just watched this all happen, he'd say that bag looked even emptier than it did before.

"Hey!" a booming voice called. They all at once turned to see the barista leaning across the counter, staring passed the other customers and right at them. Sam's heart rate jacked up - and he was sure he felt Dean's do the same through the table. "If you're going to split one coffee in both cups I have to charge you for two."

Sam exhaled but didn't release his muscles. The woman smiled and raised the now empty cup as if to toast it.

"Just ice, mate!" She swished the cup in circle, eliciting a noise that was startlingly similar to ice rattling around in a nearly empty cup. Sam and Dean eyes darted towards each other in a bewildered stare.

The woman turned back around, setting the cup back in front of Dean. "Right, we're off. Thanks for the load, see you around, encino man. And you too, guy." She winked at Sam.

Both brothers stared on as eye-man and the woman walked out of the cafe without a glance behind them. A few moments passed, neither saying a thing.

"What did that mean, encino man?"

"I don't know."

Dean quietly reached for the now empty cup. Popping off the lid, he looked inside, then back up, his eyes large.

"It's empty."

—

Once the anxiety left Dean, **Sam** could tell, he seemed to start caring in on himself in tiredness. He hadn't seen it till then, but Dean's shoulders had been tight as a bow ready to loose an arrow, and now that the ends of his nerves weren't in the coals, he was a balloon deflated. Relieved, yes, but drained. They lasted nearly another two hours on the road before it became too much, and Dean had to call the day, and Sam, too. He felt it then, the weight of the day, all they'd done and just did. He considered the stress Dean must have felt, leading up to their meeting the strange people in the capitol building.

Tomorrow was a new day. He referenced the map and noted an upcoming town, Elk City, that looked about as good as any, and Dean was fast to accept, citing his need for sleep. They passed a small blip on the map called Foss, and another named Canute, and finally came upon the exit for Elk City: two miles.

Dean eased them into a parking spot in front of the main office of a roadside Motel 6, their 'vacancy' sign like a light house in the early twilight. He killed the engine, sitting back in his chair, sighing. He turned to Sam with a tired look, but a content one.

"You know, we're on Route Sixty-Six right now. Could take this baby all the way to California if we wanted."

"Dad wouldn't be a fan."

"You're almost nineteen. Dad doesn't have a say."

Sam scoffed. "If only."

Sam visited the main office while Dean worked on emptying the trunk. By the time he returned with a key, the car was lighter and Dean more tired than before, next to a pile of their meager bags.

Sam settled on the stiff mattress of one of the beds while Dean unzipped his bag on the other.

"I call shower dibs," he said, pulling out a sandwich bag of bathroom supplies. Sam, already half asleep himself, could only _hmm _in ascent. The door closed behind Dean before the small room filled with the sound of shower like the rain, and the warm air escaping from under the door carrying along soft sounds of Dean's voice.

_Oh, something's got a hold of me now._

_It's a feeling, burning up like I'm on fire._


	14. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Sunday, April 26th, 2002

It wasn't until **Sam **walked out from the steaming bathroom himself, a fresh new bandage over his eyebrow, that they both realized they hadn't stopped for dinner, let alone had something to drink since their coffees at the capitol building more than two hours earlier. In the fear of driving for another second Dean made an argument for walking, which Sam agreed with. Dean unlaced his boots, falling back in a chair to slip them back on.

"Don't you own anything other than boots?"

Dean tugged the shoelace in his fingers, closing the knot. "What do you mean?"

If Sam had any impression about Oklahoma so far, it was this: flat. At eight in the evening the sun wouldn't set for hours yet, though when it did, it was going to be behind a horizon as flat and long as a two-by-four under a clear sky. But that was just as well, he most likely wouldn't be outside to see it anyway, colorful or not.

The two followed the sidewalk, heading west towards another beacon, a sign in the distance for another grocery store. Sam was thankful not to have stepped into a diner thus far, but the trip was young. Those were John's road trips, and those too his complaints of the food and the heartburn they always gave him, despite Sam begging for anything else. If the entire trip passed without Dean opting for a meal served on checkerboard tables with Elvis in the background, he'd be glad for it. Then, he reminded himself, the trip was never going to be over. He would never have to worry about diners for the rest of his life, if he wanted.

They passed a handful of 'Closed for Business' signs on Elk City's main strip before reaching a park, the cooler air coming off the pond to join the cool air of the spring, Dean pushing Sam by the shoulder into a flock of geese on the water's edge, then having to run away when Sam chased him. They laughed together, pointing at license plates and business signs. The jokes had devolved, no longer funny, necessarily, but the two of them still laughed. Till one business in particular caught Dean's eye and the laughter turned to a surprised gasp.

"Route Sixty-Six museum, Sammy," he said, pointing.

Jutting out over the road was a sign as large as their car, the trademark route sixty-six road marker. Dean stomped away off the sidewalk and through the grass, going towards the first door his eyes found.

It looked to Sam like less than one museum and more a small suburb of museums. Each building on the block was free standing, each with western-style architecture and lettering on the sides and signs, maybe with something different in each. Dean had approached a white building on the corner, the closest to them, peering inside. A two-story building with an old 'Hotel' sign hanging over the door, but very not a hotel, and closed for the day. He found Dean peering through the glass door, bobbing around to see deeper.

"What are you doing?"

He had a scowl on his mouth too, Sam saw. He didn't break his stare in the building. "There's a mannequin in there, looks fishy."

"You say that about all mannequins."

"Damn right I do."

Sam, grinning, pulled him away, though as they crossed the street to the grocery store, Dean was already laying plans for the next day where "that is our first stop, no questions." Sam didn't ask any.

Dean found exactly what he wanted on the for-sale section in the deli section, Sam picking the same meal himself, and a sun-faded old woman with a pleasant smile let them cut ahead of her in line, citing her packed cart and their nearly empty hands, in and out of the store in five minutes.

"That's pretty lucky," Dean chimed in, passed the bag into Sam's hand as they walked back out into the world.

Sam carried their grocery bag back to the hotel and they ate on the floor, Dean bootless after he traded his jeans for a pair of thin pajama bottoms, removing the layers till he was in a plain t-shirt. For a while they talked and they listened. These waters were still new, for both of them, but they didn't seem quiet as impassible as they had the day before, or even earlier that morning. The longer he looked at Dean the farther out he swam into those uncertain waters, the less Dean was existing as just a concept in Sam's head and the more he was becoming solid. And it warmed Sam at the same time that it worried him. It seemed Dean was paddling the water himself as to meet Sam halfway, but…the water was deep, Sam knew. It would be a far way to sink.

There was a juxtaposition Sam was beginning to appreciate - between Dean's work boots and hunting jeans, the concrete exterior always over his shoulders like a second coat, and Dean as he sat now, relaxed and slouched in pajama pants, no gel in his hair or socks on his feet, tucked under him like a kid. What a state to have company in, during the times your backs were turned and guards down, to show your trust, your comfort. Sam was beginning to feel grateful then, on the floor of their hotel room in the middle of Oklahoma.

An hour or so passed and fatigue welcomed itself back in like it had lived there, and they were ready for sleep. But not before Dean proofed the place - a smoking bundle of white sage walked around the edges of the room; a mat painted with a pentagram placed in front of the door; tubes socks of salt laid across the window sills - and in that order. The entire show took no longer than ten minutes, Dean moving like a man on a mission, an old pro. This was, after all, the same routine John performed in every hotel or spare room they spent the night in. He only stopped doing it in their apartment after the neighbors complained of the constant noise of the smoke alarms. Sam didn't participate in the pointless routine, however, following Dean around the room with only his eyes, perched on the bed as he was. At the end of it, the familiar smell of sage only soured his mood a little, despite Dean's promise of no hunting. He supposed he could let things like this slide.

"I'm gonna step outside," Dean said, digging in the pocket of his jeans from the floor. He stood straight and gestured with his cell phone towards the door. "Call dad so he doesn't have a heart attack."

Part of Sam wanted to hear it; the other part was glad he didn't need to. He sat still on top of the covers of his bed, hearing the sound of his breathing alongside the low timber of Dean's muffled voice just outside their door. After a few minutes Dean finished his task, closing the door behind him for the last time. He was slightly out of breath as he tossed his keys onto the hotel chair. He looked at Sam expectantly.

"Sorry," Dean said, and Sam was sure he meant 'for all this'.

Sam took off his t-shirt and freed the hotel-quality sheets from the mattress. "We all die in our habits." The room went dark, Dean flipping the switch, and he climbed into his bed.

Although, for all that the room was dark and he was tired, Sam couldn't fall asleep. Or, didn't want to. He wasn't sure. Maybe he thought sleep would move the clock forward too much; somehow, when he hadn't been paying attention, he'd enjoyed the day, drug deal and all. His eyes adjusted to the dim light that leaked through hotel curtains and he rolled over in bed. Dean's shape laid still under his covers, outlined faintly against the black, facing back at Sam.

"It's crazy to me you're gonna be nineteen, man." Dean murmured in a voice that said sleep was close but illusive nonetheless, somehow louder in the room now that the lights were off.

Sam didn't have anything to say to that, so he hummed in agreement instead. He could believe he was turning 19. He felt like he'd already passed 100.

Dean went on in his grumbling tone. "And I'll actually be around for this one."

Sam stared where he thought Dean's face would be. "How about that."

"I know. Not being there for your last one…it sucked."

"Should have been there, then. You didn't miss much anyway."

His eighteenth birthday was celebrated less at home with his own father than it had been in an abandoned mill a few cities east from Lyon, where John had been 'hired' to worry about the problem of missing kids and Sam had been brought along. There had been a lazily exchanged gift once they'd returned home, then his birthday wasn't mentioned again until his and John's conversation at the breakfast table yesterday. But Dean wouldn't know about any of that, after all.

"You know, I have to ask," Dean said quietly. "I avoided it all day because, I don't want to start anything, but I can't help wonder why you didn't come around after you turned eighteen."

For a moment he had no words to say. He spent a second decided which part was the most confusing. "Why didn't I come around?" His confusion was so strong he had to sit up, couldn't handle the sideways question lying sideways. "You were the one who moved out. Why didn't you come around?"

"I - couldn't." Sam heard rustling and knew Dean was sitting up too. His bare skin reflected the faint light, a light blue in the nighttime. They met eyes as well as they could in the dark. "Not before you turned eighteen, anyway. After that, when I never saw you again I thought you…didn't want to see me."

Sam squinted at the form of his brother in his attempts to understand the middle speak, the things between the words he wasn't digesting which would solve what Dean was talking about. It was almost as if Dean believed Sam was in the know about something he absolutely was not.

"But anyway," Dean cut in, "you don't have to answer, I guess you have your reasons. I'm just glad we're here together again, now, is all I'm trying to say."

Out of all he had to pick from, Sam's mind narrowed down on one of them. "What do you mean not before I turned eighteen? What would that have to do with anything?"

"For the order to expire, when you weren't a minor anymore."

"Order," Sam said in way of question.

Dean didn't speak for a moment. A weight was in the air, suspended, expectant. "The restraining order. That dad put against me."

The weight fell - and landed straight on Sam. The words made sense to him, as did what they meant as far as definitions could go, but it was almost as if they were too bizarre, had no business being said in that order, or to him, that Sam was nonetheless unclear.

"I don't know what you mean," was all he could say.

"You really don't know anything about this," Dean said, "do you." But Sam didn't know what he didn't know, and could only stay silent. "The fight, dad trying to move again, kicking me out…nothing at all."

A small crack appeared in his forsaken calm, the beginnings of a cave in. This was beginning to sound serious. "No."

And now Dean was beginning to sound mad. "You - you would have had to sign it, the order. Even as a minor. But you didn't."

"No, I didn't sign…anything. I don't think minor's have to sign them anyway."

Dean laughed then but it was an unsettled one, a cough of the anger which was growing, Sam knew because he was feeling the same. The burn of it caused Sam to come back to his senses. Reaching to the lamp on the nightstand between their beds he cast the room back into light. Dean was leaning up on one hand, suspended in place, hair mussed, eyes wide but now clear of tiredness. Behind them was an old anger, the type that had grown from something smaller into a beast, the way nothing small could look. It took Sam aback. There was a story here he had no idea existed. What this anger was born from.

"What the fuck happened?" Sam asked intently.

If ever Sam thought it strange he and John had spent so long - over a year - in Lyon, Mississippi, those wonderings never added to any kind of out-loud questions, for the fear that they would be the straw on the camel's back, the catalyst at which John would uproot Sam's carefully-laid plans only to die once transplanted someplace else. And if Sam had ever contemplated why Dean himself, so intent to move out and away from Sam, had stayed in Lyon alongside them, he'd never had an answer. And this was sounding suspiciously like that answer.

Because what Sam didn't know, as Dean began, was that he had been dangerously close to leaving Lyon once, after only the stay of a few short weeks, nearly two years prior, when he had been 17. It was never unusual in their life to, say, get enrolled in a new school just to leave a month later, or for John to find a job and quit it as soon as it gave them moving money, and Sam wouldn't normally have given it a second thought. Only Dean could tell that Sam was fed up.

"But Lyon was different though," Dean said, "it's not all the time that we really feel at home anywhere but, I don't know - I was graduated already so it didn't really matter to me but, you'd reached out and made some friends, it looked like. To move again and give that up? And a person needs that, you know? To force you to cut those people off…" Sam heard a hint of grief in those empty seconds when Dean trailed away. "Anyway."

Dean's first confrontation with John, a few days prior to the second, was just that - a confrontation - where Dean suggested they stay somewhere longer than the time it took for John to need new underwear, and John suggested Dean get his head checked for talking that way. He wasn't missing any chance to pick up 'that bastard's trail'. "It's always 'the trail' we're chasing, hints or clues or something that might help dad find it again, if he'd ever had it in the first place. 'The bastard that killed your mother.'" Dean slid his voice down into a caricature of John's voice. He rolled his eyes when he was done. "As if we forget somehow."

I wasn't even planning on saying anything," Dean went on, Sam waiting on his every word. "But I was worn out, and angry. Those two things don't work together, or shouldn't, anyway. Being exhausted in the same place where anger is supposed to come from. I'd caught him in the parking lot calling on apartment listings someplace. And so it just…came out."

"What did you say to him?" Sam asked.

"That if he was moving, so was I, and that you were coming with me."

Sam's brow shot up in surprise. All of this happening while Sam was sleeping soundly in his bedroom, unknowingly the cause of this all. "You were going to…keep me there, in Lyon," Sam realized.

"No, not Lyon," Dean said. "I mean, unless that was what you wanted. Lyon never made much sense to me anyway since your school is in Clarksdale, but I think we were only in Lyon so Dad could have the privacy. Less eyes, less questions, that sort of thing. You would finish - graduate - keep your friends, we wouldn't have to move every four weeks to take on a hunt or follow The Trail. Then after that…the world is an oyster, so they say."

Sam let go of his breath. He hadn't noticed but he was nearly panting to compensate for his heartbeat. He raised a hand and ran it through his hair, away from his face. "Wow," was all he could say.

"Yeah. And he punched me for it." Dean leaned on one elbow to bring his hand to his face. He pointed his finger one-twice at his jaw. "Right there, in the parking lot. After he told the person on the phone that he'd call back, of course. Then he got down to where I fell and told him to get the fuck out, and that no one threatens his kid's life.

"But I _am _his kid, and he _attacked _me. I didn't realize it till later but I didn't threaten his kid - I threatened his _hunt_. His catch. If he couldn't move around then he couldn't hunt, couldn't track down his monster. He'd put me - his kid - on the ground for 'threatening' you, his kid. But I would never threaten you - or him. I'd have to be insane before that happened. Never in my life - "

"I believe you." The year that had passed, Sam believing and entertaining every thought that came through his mind that Dean was the villain, the one who'd left him behind with John alone in their apartment, who'd disappeared and didn't want Sam in his life anymore - and Dean had been the only one looking out for him. John's own hand in what had been the biggest event in Sam's life, and then lying about it - for so long - it was almost too easy to believe. Yet he'd never considered it himself. His own father going to such lengths to keep this up. It was psychotic.

_Almost_ too easy to believe.

Dean sighed, collapsing on the mattress with relief. Sam watched his body bounce on the tough mattress. He laughed grimly while he settled, his free hand coming to his face and scrubbing over his eyes. "I really needed to hear that, Sam. This whole time I was thinking…I don't know. That you hated me, for some reason. And that was why you didn't come around after you turned eighteen." He looked up from his hand and took a deep breath through his nose, letting it out from his mouth. His eyes were red, even in the dim light from the lamp, Sam could see that.

"I did hate you," Sam let out. "The whole time."

Dean's eyes widened and the slightly lifted corners of his mouth fell, but he was silent.

Sam said, "Keep going."

Dean had spent the rest of that late night silently taking his few things out of the house while John watched, the same bedroom that now sat empty back in Lyon. John had simply stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, and Dean recalled the way he was looking at him, like he'd never hated a thing more.

Dean said, "It made me so angry, how he could show his own kid that kind of disgust. Plain as the nose on his face. And it still makes me angry." He was picking at a loose thread on the comforter. He paused, as if collecting his thoughts. "So then once all my things were out in my car dad gets me by the shirt and pins me to the door, he was all up in my face - " He makes a wave gesture at his face to represent John. "Starts saying stuff like, if I so much as a knock on the door he would put me in jail. Not in the ground," Dean clarified, "but jail. I've always thought that was…I don't know. Interesting."

This was the point that their stories interconnected, Sam knew, and remembered it clearly. Waking up the next day, the bathroom cleared of Dean's few toiletries, his bedroom empty of his things and too the apartment of life.

"The next few days I lived in my car till I found a place to rent, then got a police officer serving me a restraining order in the middle of my shift at work a few days later. And there was this letter with it, too, dad saying he wouldn't leave Lyon a day before you graduated, then you'd be gone. But he was very clear I was still not to have anything to do with you. And…"

Dean turned his hands to show empty palms, and Sam couldn't tell what type of silence it was that followed after them. But it was loud. Sam waited for more. Maybe for something to be said about the time that had passed since then. There had to be something to say about the year of heartache and anger and countless smaller emotions that added to a hundred larger ones. In the year Sam had felt everything, and in every possible combination, about Dean leaving him behind, some that were destructive, others constructive. He discovered the only way to survive them was to…let it go. Bury the situation, like a dead dog, shake his hands of the dust. And all the while he'd been pointed in the wrong direction. The monster had been in his own house all along.

Dean went on, perhaps to fill the void. "But I, uh, found a job and bought cheap furniture. Lived my life and waited for your birthday to come around except when it did, and I never heard from you, well. You know the rest. But I had to stay in Lyon to make sure dad kept his word. Which was the hardest part - being so close but not allowed do anything about it." He started scratching the back of his neck. Sam thought it made him look sheepish.

It was suddenly important that Sam shared, too. "I thought you'd just decided to move out, like you'd had enough of us and were on your way. Or enough of me, anyway, for some reason. You obviously weren't sticking around so long for dad so when you finally decided to leave, I guess I thought it was because of me. I had no idea…" Sam drifted off in word and in thought, taking stock of every memory he could grasp in the instant, then searched in them for any hints or clues or holes that might have let him on to what had really gone on. And he came up with none. If there were any to begin with, John had hidden them perfectly. "About any of it," he finished.

Dean said, quietly, as though to match the silence of the room, "And I can't believe I lost of a whole year. For nothing."

"Yeah," Sam croaked back. There was a sudden, burning weight behind his nose, and if he talked any louder it was going to come out his eyes. "Me either. But. I don't think it was for nothing."

That weight was his guilt, Sam was beginning to think, for everything he'd said, and thought, all the plans he'd made during Dean's absence - because of Dean's absence - believing he had not a friend in the world but himself. And not even then, at some points. For Claudia, too, who had become something of a scapegoat, he was realizing, strung along by Sam's frivolity and whim for something to hold onto. Some of her last words were wishing him a good trip, to have fun with his brother, and he suddenly wanted to talk to her and tell her what he was learning and how, in his darkest heart he knew none of this his fault, or Dean's - it was John's. All of this was John's. The living-puppet master who got to watch all of this happen with a front row seat, like it was some kind of theater. Who probably had a smile on his face the entire way for thinking he was so smart. He'd expelled his own son, created threats and faked legal action - put words in Sam's mouth, spoken in his name. Sam's heart was racing as he sat in bed and his thoughts spun like they were falling down a drain, staring at his brother pick the string on the blanket again.

He might have only lost a year, but he'd almost lost more than that. It was a fierce bit of knowledge then, at that moment, but Sam knew he wasn't going to leave Dean. Not if he could do anything about it. Sam got up from his bed and went to a wide-eyed Dean, looking as if he had something more to say, but Sam choked them off when he roped his arms around Dean's shoulders. He made a noise in surprise but caught on after only a heartbeat, sitting up and returning it, strong and full of what they both knew were mutual apologies and the fact that, even though they'd been together all day, they'd still missed each other. Sam took stock of the temperature of Dean's skin, the muscles of his shoulders were solid, and understood that he existed in the flesh again.

They turned out the light once again, both Sam and Dean thrown under the cover of darkness and the springtime moon outside their window. If it had been any way otherwise, they both would have seen the other had fallen asleep with a smile.

—

**Dean **woke with a start, the world beyond the curtains of their hotel room still black with night and Sam asleep under his covers in the bed next to him. Dean's heart was pounding but his breath was even, his nerves at attention. Because something had just pounded on their door.

He carefully extracted himself from under the covers and took stock of the room. Not a sound, or movement. No unexplained shadows. The noise against the door had happened during his sleep, yes, but Dean wasn't so naive as to believe it was part of a dream, or some differently colored version of reality. He walked soundlessly across the room. His hand came against the door. He crept to the peephole.

Their car sat in its parking space reflecting the yellow light next to their door. The air was still.

Dean stepped away, sighing. He hadn't expected to find anything anyway. Maybe it had been a forgotten dream after all.

He laid back in bed, pulling the still-warm blankets over him. Sleep fell on him fast.

He awoke once more to the same sound, something solid colliding with their door, this time followed by the faint sounds of scratching. This time he stayed in bed, tuning his ears instead to follow the noise. Dean thought it reminded him of times when he traced his hands along a wall as he walked. A hiss of his skin against the paint or the wallpaper. At a rustle next to him, Dean looked and saw Sam turning over in his sleep. In another second he'd settled, and Dean had gone to the door.

Yet again the peephole was clear, just as it had been. He felt as if not much time had passed since the last noise, though time passing in sleep could have been hours. He spent a moment more peering through the glass but saw nothing still. Up until just as he'd turned to walk away, the air was quiet.

Across the room, at the window, shrouded by the curtains as they were a shadow breezed by in the gloom, there a moment and gone the next. Dean's nerves went off like a shot. His vision crisped, the sound that reached his ears sharper than before. But nothing came to him. Once again thrown back into silence. He stood in the middle of their room like a sentry waiting for the attack to arrive. As the minutes ticked by he checked that the salt was still in front of the windows, and the door mat still pressed first against the door jam. They were. And as the minutes began adding to an hour, he put himself back in his bed, but he kept his ears open.

The night didn't stay silent, as Dean hoped each time he lay back in bed, but he and Sam didn't seem in any immediate danger. It seemed whatever was outside behaved more like a lost animal than a malevolent being. Sometimes it woke Dean - though he never truly slept - with faint scratching noises against the door, or the slight metallic jingle of the rattling doorknob. He knew from his own home in Lyon that while a cat might be wild, they still knew how to get inside a house, knew to scratch at windows or mash their heads into doors. Regardless of how Dean perceived their safety, though, he knew it was never a promise, and again and again he'd fallen into the strange purgatory between sleep and not, until he couldn't keep track of it any longer.

As the black turned to purple and then to pink, the noise came less frequently, until it ceased altogether. He left his bed for the last time as the sun broke the horizon, before Sam, excited with the idea of slipping away to the grocery and back before Sam was any the wiser but heavy with tiredness. Bringing back something for breakfast would put a smile on his face. He opened the door cautiously, wishing, but not hopeful, that the events from the night were just products of his imagination, only to have them confirmed when he faced the myriads of rends in the wood, in every direction, and the dense collection of the many that surrounded the door knob, deep like tire tracks made in fresh mud.


	15. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Monday, April 29th, 2002

When the time came and **Sam **cracked his first eye of the morning, the morning sun was just turning the sky pinks and purples, the curtains still closed. He saw Dean sat on the edge of his mattress, bent over double, doing up the lace of his boot. It wasn't a set of traits that Sam was wont to keep track of, but in this way Dean was like John - up before the sun to do what needed to be done. That morning, Sam didn't know what 'that' was, and as far as he was concerned, 'that' was going back to sleep. Sam closed his eyes as Dean stood from the bed, and kept them closed while he listened to the sound of Dean's footsteps and the opening hotel door.

On his second visit of the morning to the waking world Dean's bed sat empty and the room was much brighter, but the courtesy chair in front of the small coffee table did not. In front of his face like a newspaper, Dean studied their map, concentration on every corner of his face, living there alongside, Sam saw, some shadow of tiredness, and wondered to himself why Dean hadn't slept as well.

He didn't call out to say anything, only watched. They were obviously no longer strangers to each other but that didn't mean he could put a name on them yet. Were they brothers again, or friends, or both? Companions, compatriots, teammates. He supposed all that could be done was to wait and see. Or create that definition again.

"I'd tell you to take a picture, Sammy, but so far that's all you've been doing." Dean said through a grin, tweaking the corner of the map to wink at Sam, who right away brought the blanket back over his face.

—

Dean's enthusiasm as he picked a parking spot was a sight to see. Even given that it was opening time on a Monday morning, **Sam **expected the crowd to be slightly slimmer, but he really shouldn't have - Route 66 was an American treasure - or so Dean certainly thought - and this museum was right on the main drag of Elk City. Sam had reminded Dean that the map showed another, bigger Route 66 museum a few towns over, but he was overruled.

"This one is _here_, and we are _here_. Which means we just get to go to both."

The outside of the museum was largely unchanged from the night before, save for a few propped-open doors and a mannequin in a cowboy costume, letting in the spring sunshine and letting out the faint hints of a song. Dean closed his door and opened Sam's, practically vibrating, the signs of his restless night disappearing in the places that his excitement took over. He'd given no answer to Sam's questions either, besides a plain and simple, "hotel beds are never comfortable." But now it didn't matter to either of them, it seemed. They walked through the open glass door of the white building labeled 'Hotel' that Dean had inspected the night before - Dean staring down the bucktoothed plastic man all the while.

This first building Dean led him through was a small dedication to Route 66 itself, brandishing countless license plates from each state it wound through. Dean spent a handful of minutes in front of the wall, pointing to the individual states and counting them off to Sam, as if recreating a bullet list of all the ones they'd visited, and Sam wasn't surprised to see it was nearly three-quarters of them. Past that and into another large room, the small chatter from the people around them was overtaken by above-head speakers playing Nat King Cole on a loop. The ceilings were high and the path seemed to be leading them in a semi-circle. The walls were painted to remind the looker of sunsets of the desert, the cityscapes of the east, and in some places the heavier wooded places in the mid-west. Dean pointed out the differences between some of the more identical-looking pieces of vintage machinery that Sam looked over entirely, referencing their purposes and what was around today to replace them. Each and every time Dean opened his permanent smile to share something else, Sam found himself growing increasingly impressed, and excited, too, alongside his brother. He had no idea Dean knew so much about…anything, besides hunting, wondered when he'd learned this all.

Interested as he'd become Sam had yet to take out his camera. Not until they'd reached the end of the circular path, where Dean stood in the mouth of a small closet-like area to one side, a look on his face like he'd been lost. Once the picture was snapped and Sam had asked what was wrong, Dean only stepped aside. Sam was faced with the largest collection of Popeye the Sailor Man memorabilia he'd ever seen.

"It's like he's following us," Sam said.

Dean answered, "That's exactly what I was thinking."

He only spared a second after that, whisking Sam away and back into the sunshine. And so they spent the next flow of time - how long, Sam couldn't be sure, but he enjoyed himself because Dean was enjoying himself - moving through the different things they were offered. One building was dedicated to sharing the history of rodeo days passed, while it's basement displayed how a family's home might have looked in the early days of Route 66, creepy dolls and all. Sam enjoyed the atmosphere old homes like these exuded, the character inside of everything that filled it. They had an energy a person wouldn't find in anything else. He got another picture of Dean's nose nearly pressed against a map of the route marked with three red slashes, where it started, were they stood, and where it ended, respectively.

Dean's comment about the camera earlier worried Sam that he might have been bothering Dean's anti-photo ways, but he decided - he didn't care. Especially here, seeing something he'd never seen and wanted proof of, that Dean cared for something besides hunting, besides their father, that there was something else in his head besides killing and dying. So Sam was going to take all the pictures he wanted.

A shed, almost hidden behind the main buildings, would give anyone their fill of antique transportation equipment - old pilot airplanes and fire trucks and the like - but after a quick pass Dean hadn't seen much to keep his attention. In fact, he'd turned to a more serious mood partway through their tour, just after leaving the Hotel building. Sam chocked it up to the number of people, which had grown slightly as the morning passed. They bought an old fashioned soda in a small store next to an old doctor's office, then stepped inside the tall, wooden chapel. The school house had a plaque by the door that Sam took a photo of, for posterity's sake. All this and they'd only made it through two-thirds of the museum. Which was why, while Sam stared through the glass of another display, when Dean shared he was ready to leave, Sam was surprised. But he didn't argue. Didn't have the chance to, as Dean steered him passed the people and back around the block, towards their car.

He did however convince Dean to slow down by the same white hotel they'd started at, and slipped back inside to the gift counter he passed, picking up two classic Route 66 keychains and paying from his stash of cash. And for all his newfound discontent, Dean still smiled when Sam gave him his.

—

The farther they drove the more Dean wound down from whatever he was on. At first, as they drove away from Elk City, his leg was bouncing fast enough that **Sam **felt it through the floor, while he glanced in the review mirrors again and again, bit his nails. Sam didn't say anything. It was enough Sam was just there, he knew, when Dean enjoyed suffering in silence like he did. But as the miles ran by and the time moved forward Dean became cooler, less agitated, even singing along with _Send Me an Angel_ on his Scorpion mixtape.

For a long while Sam couldn't help but picture Dean as he had been in the museum, full of life and excitement for what was around him, how careful he was to give Sam the information and the eagerness to make sure he understood it. Cars might not have been his thing, or the road they drove on, but although he'd known they were Dean's, even this was unexpected. There was a feeling Sam couldn't quit nail down, as they passed the half hour mark, then the hour, then hour and fifteen minutes - breezing past Hext and into Texas state, passing Texola and one that made Dean chuckle, Groom - that kept resurfacing in the back of Sam's throat, like the taste of a long-finished candy. He would come to know it by name eventually, but for the moment he thought he wouldn't mind always seeing Dean so happy.

They decided to forgo the second Route 66 museum after all - it seemed they'd past it the night before without realizing it, and would have had to turn around and double back, but Dean made an explicit note on the map for the return trip - though Sam could have sworn he was still there. In Dean's calmer mood, he shared all he knew about cars and history while they drove, never glossing over the smallest name or fact.

Though they were only crossing the northern most part of the state, the roads began to evolve in Texas. Where Sam had been so familiar with the watery, flat horizons in his neck of the east, Texas was beginning to offer a bit of a variation on that theme, where the ground on either side of their highway ran steadily from the default greens of the overgrown grass and farmland to more red hues, as the hills changed to mountains in the distance, and took over the scene. The trees became sparser but a little more exotic, he thought. At one point Dean had traded his Scorpion tape for a Styx one - "'Pieces of Eight', my favorite from them," Dean said - turning it up so _Renegade_ blasted through the speakers, and the memory was seared into Sam's mind, he knew - the hot touch of the windows when he pointed at something outside, a cool breeze inside from the air vents, he and Dean both singing in sync with Tommy Shaw as the cars moved around like it was a normal day. It all came together in one unstoppable feeling, like Sam was on the tallest tower in the world, happening in its own reality. It would be one he thought back to often, and one that he decided not to photograph. They hadn't passed a single accident or road construction that would have slowed them down, and Sam wondered at the luck of it all.

By a quarter passed noon Sam was beginning to recognize where they were, only by the burnt, soggy dregs of some long-thought-dead memory from his time as a kid. The arrangement of the billboards they passed were aligning with these phantom memories but it wasn't until he saw the 'Welcome to Amarillo' signs that they coalesced into anything solid. He had the thought then, wondered how many of these small towns and cities and rest areas he may or may not have passed as a kid, when he would be asleep in the backseat of John's car to make time pass faster, and how small the world really was. Nearly each one of those memories, though, felt like looking through a pair of dirty glasses - the world around him recognizable, but only if he squinted and tilted his head. Dean flipped his blinker and started drifting towards the first exit, the exit they agreed upon when decided their lunch.

They'd found their place in the flow of the massive city's traffic - thicker all the more due to the lunch hour - and wound through the streets till they found their stop. It wasn't the place anyone in a suit would eat, but it was not a diner, and for that Sam was still thankful while they parked. Dean stopped short of the door, though, his phone in his hand.

"You go on in, Sammy, and get us a table. I'm gonna check in with dad so he doesn't think you're dead, or I killed you."

Dean chuckled but Sam scowled involuntarily. It resurfaced that which he'd learned the night before - John's lies, Dean's worries, his own anger - things he hadn't had much time to think of since. Better Dean be the one talk to their father, Sam reasoned, than him. If he got John on the phone…there was no telling what would be said.

Dean turned away and put the phone to his ear. The door chimed after Sam, and the server just inside led him to a table for two.

—

They ate their lunches slowly, in the way two people who found themselves in good company could. Dean had come inside after only a few minutes and found **Sam **at their table before the waiter even came by for their drink orders. "He didn't answer," Dean had said, scooting into the seat next to Sam, rather than the one across from him. "I just left him a message. No point in trying to reach him."

The minutes passed, each had gotten their food, but something stuck out to Sam.

"Why even bother with him anymore, Dean? After what he did."

Dean paused mid-chew. He stared at Sam for a moment as if asking if he'd heard right, then set his burger down. Putting a fry in his mouth, he looked out the window, chewing thoughtfully.

"Well…" Dean trailed. "He's family, you know?"

Sam blinked, held it for effect. "Yeah."

"He's our dad."

"I think that word gives him too much credit."

"Come on, Sammy. I mean, if I'd given you the shaft even just a few days ago, we never would have made up like we have."

_That's…fair._ "Family can fuck you too, Dean."

"All right." Dean cleaned his hands on the napkin laid over his knee, rocked into the seat to get more comfortable. "Let's say this. Let's say I tell dad to go drown in a ditch. After that, he leaves me alone. That solves nothing."

"It does - it saves you the headaches. Cut them out and you don't have to worry about them anymore."

"It really doesn't. I might lose the headaches, sure, but I couldn't live with that over my head for the rest of life."

"With what over your head? You'd be clean."

"The guilt, Sam. Who wants to live that way?"

"What guilt? Where would that come from?"

"I'm not the thought police, brother. What business do I have telling people what to do, or how to see things?"

"It isn't about what people think, though, it's what they do, they're actions. Dad did all of this on purpose."

Dean had brought his hands together in a clasp that covered his mouth, his eyes calculating, clear. He couldn't tell how Dean was feeling, but he knew he was getting agitated. The moment hung on the air for a moment while Dean was silent. By no means were either of them being loud, but for all that, the noise around them felt heavier.

"Sam," Dean began, "if that's how you feel, then I have to ask you. Each and every time you told your girlfriend not to worry about me or dad, all the times over the last year you decided not to reach out to me, whatever lie you had to tell to get by - I'm not dogging on your for lying, I know that's how it is - you did all of that on purpose. Didn't you?"

Sam didn't want to answer. He stared for a moment, running his tongue under his teeth. Maybe it wasn't that he didn't want to answer, but that he didn't have one.

"Nothing," Dean said, punctuated with his pointer finger, "happens without a thought running through your brain. You change the subject when your little girlfriend or boyfriend asks about your family? That's a thought before it ever becomes an action. You decide to go straight home after school, rather than see what your brother's been up to? You've already made up your mind. You are what you think - that's what your character is. The things that happen where no one can see." He reached across the table and_ thunk_ed Sam on the temple. "No one can go up there but you. I'm not running away from dad because I want to change what happens in his mind, not his hands. Change one and you change the other."

Dean pulled back, settling Sam in a gaze he couldn't quite read. Like the kind a kid gets after they've just been handed a 'lesson'. Sam thought for a moment.

"People's thoughts aren't my responsibility."

Dean shrugged. "Of course not."

"Dad isn't your responsibility."

"But that's not what I'm saying. I'm making the choice to help dad. You're not wrong for your choice anymore than I am for mine. But you were wrong about me - you may be wrong about dad, too."

That didn't seem right. "I was wrong about you because I didn't have all the information."

"Look, I'm not here to change your mind. Just to be the devil's advocate. All I'm saying is, it's not my place to judge what goes on in people's heads. Just to…help, if I can." Dean picked his burger back up and bit in.

They settled back over their food, a little colder now, and even while they made their small talk, he was thinking.

Dean's take on the entire situation felt wrong to Sam…but he'd been right, about some things. If Sam had condemned Dean for even another day longer, they wouldn't be on this trip, and Sam would never have found out the truth of what John did. He'd be in Lyon right now, pining over Claudia.

_Actually, I would be in Salt Lake, hunting God knows what._

But he felt a person was more than their thoughts. Thoughts didn't attack and alienate their children - actions did that. And thoughts wouldn't drive across the country in their attempts to make things right - actions did that. Thoughts were the kindling of our character, he thought, the frames in the middle that held everything up. They were bones, eliciting our movements and supporting the results. Sam had made the small decisions to avoid his brother, but there were also the thoughts that governed the actions. _Change one and you change the other_. He'd said it himself, they were one in the same. So where was Dean's weird sense of responsibility coming from?

"I wasn't very honest with you yesterday," Sam said suddenly. "At the casino. About Claudia."

Dean didn't prompt Sam to keep going, only listened when he was ready to. He realized Dean had been nothing but honest these past couple of days. Sam thought he owed a little bit of that back.

"She ended it, but it wasn't because of college, I had, uh. I kept too many secrets from her, about you and dad. And me. I don't know what I expected. I don't know how I thought I could ask her to, you know, marry me, if she didn't know anything about me."

At that Dean's mouth fell in surprise. "You were going to marry her?"

A tick of embarrassment landed on his shoulders and he shrugged. "I know, I know. I don't really know what I was thinking."

"Well, you cared about her, right? Of course you wanted to marry her. I was only surprised at how deep in it you actually were."

That was the thing, though. "I cared about her - care, still do, I guess - but that wasn't why I wanted to marry her." Sam paused for a moment. Each time he said the word marry it was heavy in his mouth. It had a feeling to it but he didn't know what it meant yet. "I think I clung on to her so hard because she was my ticket to getting what I want, you know, the normal life where people do the whole long-distance-relationship thing during school then marry their high school sweetheart. When she and I first met, you know, I suddenly hadn't had anyone around I could talk to, about things, and she filled that. And now that everything is over, it's…like I can breathe." He didn't know that was the word for it till he said it.

"It couldn't have been that bad."

"No, it wasn't bad, but it wasn't all real. At least, that's how I'm starting to see it. Claudia wasn't dating me, just the person I'd handed her. And that's not fair to anyone. I know all that now, though." Sam dropped his gaze and poked around his sandwich.

Dean was nodding along, mouth pinched in a frown of solidarity. It seemed like he knew too well what Sam was talking about - and who knew, maybe he really did.

"She, uh," Sam had to look away suddenly, talk to the window. "It was close, though, she was almost stuck with me. She told me she was almost pregnant."

Dean's eyes grew large as the salt shakers on the table, jaw clamped shut in the middle of his mouthful. Despite the seriousness, Sam had to laugh at him, how still his body went.

"But she wasn't," Sam amended. "It felt kind of like a test, to get my reaction maybe? She said it had something to do with her birth control, but I definitely failed either way. But mean, we used condoms, all that. And, uh, you know, I'm the one who has to, uh…" He gestured as though he was handing something over, and Dean blinked his planet-sized eyes. "You know." He repeated the gesture, felt his cheeks blanch slightly. "So I think I'd know." _Save Tonight_ by Eagle-Eye Cherry was playing over the restaurant's speakers in what Sam thought was strange mish-mash of surreal and business.

"No shit."

Sam nodded, shrugging again.

"No shit." Dean sat back in his chair. A slow smile was creeping into the corners of his mouth, gaze still pointed at Sam. He felt himself growing redder under the stare.

"But anyway, it's done now, so. It's a bummer I won't have her dad's recommendation on my application anymore. He's a lawyer."

Dean only smiled and stared, eyes bright with mirth.

"Yes, Dean."

Dean bit his lip and looked out the window, a laugh spilling over his edge like a stopped up tub. "Nothing, nothing." He sat up, waving his hands in surrender, yet it was clear he didn't really mean nothing. "You just, you know - " he scratched his cheek aimlessly, "really are getting older. Not even a virgin anymore. My little brother."

"Who said I lost it with Claudia?" He picked up his glass and took a meaningless sip, staring at Dean over the rim who had fallen still once again, the shock taking root in a humored grin. Then it was Sam's turn to laugh.

Another handful of minutes passed, eating and drinking, each steadily finishing their plates. The restaurant wasn't particularly busy, surprisingly, given the hour and the sheer size of Amarillo, Sam thought, although there was something to be said for the anonymity of being just one small, purposeless ant in a colony full of others. Time truly had stilled in places like these, Sam believed in that moment, as he stared out the window and onto the street, watching pedestrians cross the street and the cars pass by. In the tall buildings reaching towards the sky, people would be working or leaving to return home. Right then someone could be dealing with a trauma and another could be walking out their door to spend time with a friend. It was the dichotomy of his life and life itself - it brought on a humbleness that was soothing in its own way, to be someone small in a place so large.

"So tell me, you haven't said anything about when your classes and stuff start, uh, when's that?"

The entire concept of Sam's relationship with Stanford slammed into him at once - checking the PO box every day, sometimes twice, the handfuls of hours meeting with Ms. Gonzalez planning his application, filling out forms in her office, pouring all his hopes into every letter he wrote. Sam groaned and his hair fell in a curtain over his eyes when he let his head fall forward.

"Sounds harsh," was all Dean offered.

"No, I don't know when I start, that's the problem." He looked back up. "I haven't heard a single word back. Not even confirmation that they got my application. If I had my phone, Ms. Gonzalez would be able to call if anything changed, but. Kind of screwed up there."

Dean's leg started bouncing under the table. At the mention of Sam's school counselor Dean started wringing his hands. Understandable.

"Maybe, uh, we can call her later and find out, if you want. If she's heard anything." But for Dean, it sounded like a thing he did not want to do.

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "No, if something happened I'm sure she would have called you. Not like she doesn't have your number." Sam toed Dean's shoe under the table to nag, grinning. His hands and fluttering knee calmed down, but Sam saw he'd made Dean nervous nonetheless. That was a subject, Sam thought, that would be best not to bring up anymore.

Dean swiped the oil from his fingers onto his napkin, leaving it crumpled on his plate as he spoke. "No, man, you'll get into school without that crummy recommendation. I've got faith in you. What's the, uh, which school is it again?"

"Stanford."

"Stanford," Dean mimed, nodding like he knew it all along. "That's going to take…years." He was focused on Sam with eyes like bores that he could almost feel on his skin, like little hands trying to grip him. He was trying to breach some kind of subject, Sam thought. Up till then Dean was polite about the subject, but never asked one question more once any talk to Sam moving came up. Truth be told, Sam was surprised this hadn't come up sooner.

"Yeah," Sam said, "lots of them. There's a lot to learn."

"And I guess, you know. Community college. Maybe something a little closer, smaller production. That's not really something you want to do."

Sam shook his head. "No. If I stay around dad a minute longer we'll kill each other. And Stanford has the best law program in the country."

Dean seemed as if those were both statements he was willing to believe. But he didn't seem especially happy about either. He turned and looked out the window too, taking in the day. All at once he gave a tap to the table with both hands and stood from his seat. He pulled out his wallet and fished around inside.

"Let's go, Sammy, I could use a little walk before we get back to the road."

It turned out that the city, or the part they were in at least, wasn't the most useful for leisure strolls, though Dean was glad to find himself surrounded by Route 66 imagery again. After all, they hadn't left the road since driving out of Elk City, following the same strip of the legendary road for two hours yet. Sam wondered if Amarillo would be half the city it currently was if Route 66 didn't cut through, but nonetheless, the city wasn't going to let anyone forget why they were famous. Gift shops along the busy streets shared where a person could get their kicks. Almost each restaurant they passed was a drive-in style diner, and the hotels, Sam was sure, would all have race-car beds. They walked along the sidewalk of the busy road, found a small patch of a green park in the middle of the concrete, took in the warm Texas sun.

Just a short while after they turned tail to make their way back to the car, Dean spoke up. "I'm proud of you, Sammy. I hope you know that.

Sam blinked. He searched Dean's face for what may lie underneath the words but for once it seemed there might not be anything. As he stared and the words sank in, his vision began going glossy, their thudding footsteps growing a little dim to his ears. He smiled, laughing a little, "Thank you."

"I might not get it, you wanting to go to school, but that doesn't mean I won't support you." He offered up his clenched fist, grinning himself. "Partners in crime, and all that."

Sam laughed again, shaking his head, bumping his own fist against Dean's nonetheless.

By 1 PM they'd returned to the car and the day was still young. Sam had gotten hot in his sweatshirt during their walk, the air in Texas proving a little more hostile than it's eastern neighbors, and this was the reason he saw, on his way to discard his coat in the trunk, the black puddle spreading from underneath Dean's car, following the groves of the asphalt down the slope towards the gutter. The inky puddle glistened in the light of hot sun.

"Dean, we got something leaking."


	16. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Monday, April 29th, 2002

**Dean's **nerves couldn't be frayed any more if he tried. The business of the scratch marks around their hotel door - which Dean had just barely seemed to convince the manager was not them, because how and why would he have scratched the baseboards of the door as a grown man - and add it to the fright Elk City had handed him. Dean had known, the night before standing outside the Route 66 museum, that the figure he'd seen in the darkness wasn't anything as simple as a mannequin, yet he'd made the stupid decision to return that morning, and it was almost as if, Dean thought, he had asked for it. He thought back to a few hours earlier, as he and Sam left that first showroom, turning around and seeing the head of another mannequin swivel towards them. Meeting his gaze with its own cold, dead eyes. Dean knew what was behind the plasticine smile, though, knew it it was the same thing behind the other thirteen fake faces - he'd counted - before he finally shoved Sam back towards the car. He'd taken Sam's silence on it happily; it meant he hadn't seen a thing. Dean shook himself. Things were still working. The luck charm was doing its job, although in a pretty unusual way.

But now this. River wasn't answering a fucking call, any of the handful he'd made since they left Elk City. Sam didn't know, couldn't have known, what the leak was, smartly assuming it was oil but coming up short nonetheless, but if Dean could manage it, sending Sam to sit in the shade while he worked he wouldn't have to learn, either. Because this wasn't oil, it was a growing puddle of ectoplasm.

It was in the car, whoever this ghost was, and it was pissed. Pissed enough to froth at the metaphysical mouth. Dean watched it drip to the ground, forming together in a solid...something. It wasn't a puddle, but wasn't solid enough to handle. In fact, he didn't know what to do. He kneeled in front of it, tossing his coat aside. His hands shook slightly as they hovered over the ick, taking a deep breath. Things he knew: ectoplasm meant ghost; ghost meant possession. He exhaled a pebble-sized piece of his worries in a huff that filled his cheeks - he at least knew how to handle that. It was as best a place to start as any.

Sam would see him digging in the trunk, but he wouldn't see for what, Dean knew. _ Make him blind for just a few minutes_, Dean put out to the universe. _Please_. He pushed aside his coat to reach his supplies. Hopefully this tub of salt looked enough like motor oil that Sam wouldn't notice. And he prayed the flask of holy water might seem something close in shape to...he didn't know, anything else. He was panicking, he realized, could feel it in his chest. Things had been going so well in these last few days. Over his shoulder, he glanced Sam sitting against the building, holding the map this way and that, looking at the entire country all in one swoop. No clue. Dean went back to work.

He spread the salt in the only way he knew how, but God knew he had never in his life exorcised a _car_. Or, if this would even work. He worried slightly at the candle, wondered if he could forgo it - lighting the car on fire would be a good thing - then settled for putting it on the roof instead of underneath. The holy water he sprinkled on all the windows was quickly baking to nothing in the Texas sun. So many t's he couldn't cross, but he worked anyway. Finally he crouched behind the trunk, in front of the puddle, one hand full of salt and ready for the final step. He looked at the car frantically while he said the words, but he had no other ideas. As the final of the banishing words left his lips he threw his hand over the tailpipe, plugging the hole while he forced the salt inside.

A moment passed. Dean held his hand true, breathing hard. Nothing happened. Although, it usually didn't, not what could be seen. With a heart full of dread, he slowly raised his head just enough to see the candles on the roof. The flame had died, faint ghosts of smoke floating away. Not, Dean noticed, drifting away on a breeze, but in the willowy way it would have in a stuffy house, riding the dead air. All of his fear fell out of his body, his head falling forward to hang on his neck. He was an empty shell, catching its breath. _Thank God_.

In the bottommost depths of his hunting supplies Dean pulled out an old EMF scanner, praying for the second time, as he flipped the power switch with a thick-sounding clunk, that it worked. The meter ran through the range of its lights as it started up, from green to red, before falling down to a nice, peaceful, safe green. He swiped it side to side over the car for a breathless moment. No change. That was good. Dean flipped the switch once more and the EMF scanner found a home in another inside pocket of Dean's coat. River had some fucking explaining to do.


	17. October 30th, 2005

October 30th, 2005

The morning before work.

_Jess is awake and talking to you from the shower, about her nurses' costume she got for the party tomorrow. You stand at the mirror, brushing your teeth with your eyes closed, the walking dead. You didn't sleep much last night again, either._

_The sky's gone dark with clouds and it feels heavy, the grays and blacks like a reflection in a mirror of your mood. Toothpaste falls from your tired mouth, and, before you can catch it, lands on your bottoms._

_On your bus ride to work you try to play the Fleetwood Mac tape you found in the box on your Walkman. You were lucky to find one at the student exchange to play the only tape you own. Lately it's been the solace each morning, one of the sweeter memories, in the way you usually found music to when the usual wistfulness of it can't even distract you from your mood, because your batteries are dead even though you're sure they were you pull the headphones off your ears and the letters out of your bag instead, undue the old glue on another one's stamp is 4th of July themed, with foil red-white-and-blue stars, addressed this time from somewhere in New Mexico._

_You learned by the dates on the postage that the letters stopped sometime around January of this year though you don't have a clear idea why yet. Maybe Dean was finally tired of you never responding and for good reason. In total, there were thirty-four letters, much more than you'd expected, and the words you'd use to describe the feeling at realizing that fact would be…you don't have the words. You hadn't written a single letter back in the three-and-a-half years you've been in California._

_Tomorrow is the Halloween party you keep hearing about and subsequently ignoring. You hate Halloween._

_And more so, it feels like something has been around every bend, each corner. _ _Watching. Waiting to fall._


	18. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Monday, April 29th, 2002

**Sam **could see that Dean had worked himself into a state changing their car's oil, but he still smiled from the driver's seat when Sam presented his latest find - the Cadillac Ranch. The map didn't offer much in the way of information besides the 'must see' quality it possessed. And it was those kinds of things Sam was most interested in seeing - the chincy, cheap, 'once in a lifetime' touristy road stops traps that he knew he'd remember most, during the hard college years when memories were warmer than anything else. Dean didn't say no, the deciding factor being Sam's words, "It's on the way."

It turned out that it wasn't a ranch by definition, but it was definitely...something. From the road, ten unidentifiable eyesores of bright paint, and it wasn't until after they found a place for their car a short walk away that Sam and Dean discovered the reason for the name. Ten individual Cadillacs were stuck halfway into the dirt engine first lined up in a row under the blazing sun like strange guardians to an even stranger land. There wasn't much of a crowd as they walked up the dirt road. The small handful of people they joined wove back and around the cars, touching the fluorescent paint and the marks from the hundreds of different people who had passed through.

Sam rounded one and found the portrait of a woman done in spray paint across the axels; on another something Sam couldn't read was painted vertically, pointing to the sky just as the car was. He and Dean were both silent as they looked. The air around each car seemed still as a rock, no sound carried in between them, warping around the corners so Sam felt alone, but not in a lonely way. He held up his hand and traced around a spray painted heart, which had dripped at the time but was now dry to the touch, encircling two pairs of initials and a small plus symbol. The more he looked around at the car, he saw the entire side was marked like this in some way - paint, permanent marker, words and images chiseled in with pencil lead, or scratched across into the metal, some but not all inside of a heart, but every initial with a pair. Sam imagined himself as one half of these initials, painting or etching himself forever here, alongside that person who agreed with him, who wanted to do it, too. He didn't miss Claudia, in the moment, his hand falling away from the paint slowly, but at one point, Claudia would have been that person, joining him in things like these. And maybe that's what he missed the most. His things that could have been.

Dean came around the corner, making Sam jump. He held up a marker next to his face. "Found it on the ground, feel like joining in?"

Perhaps it showed on Sam's face. Dean's own smile fell slightly, asking, "What are you looking at?" He came around and took in the wall of hearts and partnership that countless people had pronounced in this same spot. He brought the pads of his fingers to the car just as Sam had, feeling the texture of the paint with his nail. "This is nice," Dean said. "Makes you wonder who all these people were, huh? What they meant to each other. This is almost more of a commitment than marrying them."

Sam gave a grim laugh then, looking back at the car. He heard the sound of Dean uncapping the marker. Dean pressed the felt tip to the paint and started scrawling.

Sam laughed a little hardier, curious now. "What are you doing?"

Dean pulled back a second later and appraised his work. 'Dean Winchester '02', fat and happy in the black ink of permanent marker, was written at the very top, as high as he could have done it. "Just so it's less likely to get painted over," Dean supplied. The marker flipped in Dean's hand, bottom pointed at Sam for the taking. "Your turn."

A moment passed as Sam stared at the marker. It was suddenly an imposing idea. If he wrote his name here, he knew, it would be that he existed. He'd been here. It wasn't an idea or a plan, something dreamed up in his Mississippi bedroom for a future he could only hope for. But proof that he'd stood on the dirt, and wrote his name, took a piece of something. Imposing.

But he did it. In the years to come, anyone could stand in the same patch of earth they had and stare at this car and miss their marks entirely, but only if they didn't look high enough. Sam and Dean Winchester had existed here, breathed the air and felt the sun, had filled their chests and hearts with it.

Sam didn't know why, but he felt proud, capping the marker like closing a door. He revealed his camera, Dean letting go of a _tch_, while Sam stepped a few feet back and snapped the picture anyway.

Back in the car they sped down I-40 with the windows down this time, the harsh air catching in Sam's throat, and he looked out on the farmland as it rushed by his face. All at once, every corner of his head knew he had to say it, no more waiting.

"I'm not going back to Mississippi."

He didn't look to see if Dean heard, just knew he did. But Dean said nothing regardless.

"Even if you threaten to leave me a field somewhere," Sam went on, "I'm not going back."

The radio filled in the spaces that the wind hadn't yet found. For a few moments that was all he heard - the wind, the music, and his own heartbeat - until Dean broke the reverie with a simple, "Okay."

—

They didn't make it any farther than Adrian, half an hour's drive from Amarillo, before **Sam **knew he needed to stop, had to make his words physical, like he had at the ranch when he proclaimed his spot to the world. Since leaving the ranch, nothing but dense farmland ran passed both sides of their car but Sam couldn't focus on any of it. Nothing but the same watercolor blurs that came with the highway. Dean pulled into the convenience store parking lot and Sam felt like he could finally think. He strode inside without a word over his shoulder, hands in his pockets, and found the bathroom.

It was empty. The bleach-and-piss smell turned his stomach, rolling around in the same deep place his nerves already were. Behind a stall door, throwing the lock, he removed Dean's phone from his pocket, then sat on the lid of the toilet. His fingers shook slightly as he opened the phone and dialed the number.

Sam didn't know a thing of John's plans passed the point of where he actually was – somewhere around Salt Lake City. Any regular fear he would have had about waking him up with a phone call was now a non sequitur. He didn't put the phone to his ear right away, but listened to the first hollow ring bounce around the stall. He didn't know what he was going to say, only what he wanted to say, and in all honestly, at this point, he wasn't even sure if he wanted John to answer or not.

On the third ring, he did.

"Dean," John's gruff voice came over the earpiece. Sam hated, for a moment, the feeling of familiarity that flooded his body. It was a strange sensation, when the one responsible for the hurt could also bring the comfort.

"Nope, me." His voice sounded dingy in the empty bathroom.

"Oh, Sam, you're not the kid I expected. Where you guys at today?"

"Uh, some place in Texas. Adrian."

"Good, sounds like you're on track." John was somewhere loud, a tinnitus in Sam's ear through the speaker. "Hey, I gotta go, I'm in the middle of this thing, call me tonight – "

"I'm not coming back."

Sam met dead air. In his ear, all he heard for a few confused seconds was a faint static, the stray shout of a background noise.

John let out a laugh, the kind he'd make if humoring a child. "Sure, bud, I'll see you in a few days, then."

"No, you won't." If Sam had never meant anything again in his life, he meant that.

"What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

"I know everything, dad. About Dean. I mean what I said." Each word out of his mouth was an exercise in pure nerve. "Don't wait up on me."

Something clanged in the phone behind John's voice. "Hold on, will you, asshole?!" John yelled, then came back to Sam, "Listen Sam, I don't have time for any games right now, alright? Where is your brother?"

"What do you care?" The words left his mouth as his eyes started to burn. His mouth fell into a scowl, aimed at nothing more than the stall door. "I would have thought, uh, you know - normal people don't put restraining orders on their kids. The people they care about. Unless you don't."

"I asked _where is your brother_, Sam. Give Dean the phone now."

Sam felt himself deaden behind the eyes, then. Any grip he had on his senses slipped away like silk out of his hand. He pulled the phone away from his face, the plastic clicking as he flipped it closed with a sense of certainty, his body vibrating with the sound it made in the empty bathroom. In his empty head. It couldn't have been any longer than a second - the phone began vibrating in his hand, the small letters on the outer screen showing the simple word 'Dad'. With his thumb Sam opened the phone and pressed the END button immediately. The buzzing monster died on contact, returning to Dean's main screen. He had a recent picture of Sam as his background, smiling into the sun somewhere on the road in Arkansas, Sam didn't quite recall where. It disappeared; Sam denied the second call. Another moment; a third call.

He stalled, waiting for more. None came, or at least, hadn't come yet, but he found each press of the END button to be a small bolster to his spirit, a brick in his foundation. It hadn't been his heart he'd felt slip away at the Cadillac Ranch, or his mind, but his old self. The old self who never would have said anything like that to John in a hundred years, or who didn't know the kinds of things fathers could do to their own sons, and in that way he already felt lighter, a sensation in his mind that he hadn't expected to feel, however welcomed it was in the end. This is what it felt like to drown your old self, raise up anew. Like some…baptized zombie. And it all happened in a crummy convenience store bathroom.

Sam crossed the distance back through the store to their car. Dean was leaning back against the driver's door. He turned over his shoulder at the sound of Sam's steps, hands in his pockets, eyebrows up. Just a few feet away, Sam underhanded tossed Dean's phone. He was reminded in that instant of the two of them in Becca's white bathroom, when Dean had done the same. Was that really only three days ago?

"If dad calls," Sam said, voice small but clear, "don't answer."

Dean's eyes were wide, glancing to the cell in his hand like it was suddenly foreign. The car rocked on its shocks as Sam climbed inside. After a moment passed, Sam leaned over to look at Dean through the open driver's window. "Are you getting in? I bought us Pepsis."

—

It was an obvious fact that they could no longer drive with the Grand Canyon in their sights. John knew that's where they were going. And being in Salt Lake as he was, he was in a better position than anyone to make the drive over there himself. **Sam **had no reservations in his belief that John would have absolutely no problem searching the Grand Canyon for them, just to throw them inside it himself. The idea of changing directions doused Sam in a few things; sadness, at missing the sights, having to cancel these plans all because they couldn't trust their father; frustration, that this was the situation in the first place; and weirdly enough, some hope. Dean had agreed, and with the prospects of college looking slimmer every minute that Ms. Gonzalez wasn't calling, there was nothing waiting on him in Mississippi anymore. He'd found his happiness again, with Dean, on the road. It had to mean something.

Sam could tell, though, that his hastiness to call John had caused Dean some stress. At first the trial had been getting Dean in the car. Sam waited on his own, till a few minutes passed and he thought of something better - planning their new route. The entire country was open to them, now. And once Dean did get in his seat, he'd stared out the windshield, eyes unseeing, one leg still hanging out of the door. They didn't move from the convenience store parking lot for nearly half an hour, when the store clerk finally came out to check if they were okay, and not dead in their car. But Sam wasn't going to be able to plan anything on his own. He'd dug a quarter from the empty ash tray.

"Okay, north and south is heads. East and west is tails." He'd poised the quarter on his thumb and turned to Dean, who'd only nodded. His mouth had become a thin line of focus. Sam flicked his thumb and caught the quarter out of the air.

"East."

"I can't believe you did that, Sam."

Sam stared at the map, spinning it till he found their direction. "Oh, that won't work. We're already _going _east. And west is a little too close to Mississippi."

Dean said, "Literally, Sam. What were you thinking?" He turned to Sam then, jaw distended, as if he were keeping a great anger inside.

The sound of the flipping coin bounced in the car again. "North. That's better. What's north from here?"

"Dad is going to kill me. That's just it." Dean laughed ruefully. "I'm dead." Not for the tenth time, his phone shook the loose pennies in the cup holder as it vibrated. Finally, Dean raised his voice. "Sam, will you talk to me ab- "

"Dean." Sam tossed the word like a fast ball; all the power he could get behind a word, he put it there. He searched Dean's eyes as Dean searched his. Dean's were wide, pupils small in the moment, a little bloodshot in the corners. Sam's didn't want to think about what his looked like.

Going north was going to put them back in Oklahoma, albeit in the smallest sliver possible, but it seemed where another possible route was going to land them into the corner of New Mexico, the other would force them to backtrack. That was too close to Arizona, New Mexico. Too near to John, who would no doubt smell them the second they crossed the state lines. Iowa was north - it was also east, but the coin had spoken. They had lived in Iowa at one point, Sam knew, not for very long, of course, though Sam couldn't remember where.

"Leon," Dean had supplied, his voice low.

That sounded as fine a place as any to Sam. He spent a few more minutes tracing their way with the pen. The map sat on his knees, where the many tracings and retracings of their route was beginning to look like spiderwebbing on a broken piece of glass. Dean was rubbing his eyes in the driver's seat, leg bouncing. Every so often it was enough to jostle his pen away from their route but Sam compensated.

—

The silence between them was thicker during the next few hours, **Dean **thought, than it had ever been. The distance of the past year, the subtle places of relearning a person after so long, once again talking about the hard things - all these things squashed. Or so it felt, anyway. But Sam wouldn't hear any of it. He'd shut Dean's attempts at conversation down before they could even leave Dean's mouth. It was unclear to him whether this was because Sam didn't want to talk, or if he knew what Dean was going to be talking about, but regardless, the miles increased under their tires with every second. Dean's throat had gone sore with worry.

His phone had been a constant annoyance from the moment Sam tossed it to him. If it wasn't vibrating with a phone call, the notification light flashed in Dean's eye with every new voicemail, of which there were many, and the number only grew. He'd set it in the cupholder at first but moved it to the glove compartment ten minutes later, when the sound was too much. Even that was too near, though. It was almost as if his heart was in sync with John's calls, shaking his body along with every time it vibrated; he knew every time a call came in, every time it stopped, and every time it began again. John was in a fever, Dean imagined. And he knew this was nothing - the phone calls were almost light in comparison of what they could have been.

This was what he'd wanted, and he'd gotten it - for Sam to be his friend, for them to mean the same things to each other again, for Sam to trust him, but he'd never imagined this scenario where Sam knew of John's actions, of the fake restraining order and the threats. The memory of these things didn't affect Dean these days the same way they had in the past, and what was more, the longer Dean watched Sam the firmer he became in his belief that the time had moved them in opposite directions - Dean had suffered in his sadness, used it like a fire he would warm himself in. Came out sharper, in a way, smarter, had refined himself in the heat of his emotions like a sword. Time put a scab over his hurt till it had become easier to live with it, and then he did just that.

In his pain Dean had seen change, but he was noticing that Sam had seen something different entirely. Sam too had spent that time simmering in his own fire, in the things he'd felt. His anger, his abandonment, loneliness - he hadn't come out the other side in any semblance of his old self. This someone who was now a runner. He'd done so with Dean, with John, with Claudia, to save himself the heartache, and it seemed it was all he knew how to do now. He started running a year ago and hadn't stopped, the quicker to put the things he didn't want to see at his back. Dean felt afraid for a moment; he didn't know how to help a person heal from that.

But there was something in everyone's heart urging them to forget, Dean thought sometimes, glancing at Sam every now and again while he drove. It was almost certainly in his when the sheriff had handed him the restraining order, and again just after Sam's eighteenth birthday. Letting it simply fall from his mind would save his heart from the trauma. So easy it was to kill our present selves and give birth to someone new. Easier than surviving the heartache of what could come, if only they could pack it away in a box, never open it up again.

But…it had been that survival which forced Dean to grow. He hadn't packed his hurt away, hadn't hid it from himself. It had been during his time living inside the dark where Dean was forced to look at himself seriously for the first time, accept his qualities and work on the faults. He'd faced his arrogance, his temper, his mouth - all the things that had come together to make this his reality. That was a much healthier rebirth, he thought, than running would have given him, and as awful as living that way had been, he believed he was a better person for it.

Granted, if he ever had the choice between spending the year with Sam or spending it believing he was alone, he knew which he would have picked, but that was the point of fate - he would never be given the opportunity of change anyway, so why spend his time wishing for it? And that was the difference between ignoring the problem and staying around to face the mirror, Dean believed. The regret a person would have to live through. The unfinished business of a ghost.

The clock in his radio had turned to 3 PM, then 4, then to 5. Just before Kansas, Sam had fallen asleep with the map in his hands open on a page Dean wasn't able make out. Running even in his sleep. Dean frowned, sighing while he looked around the cab for any hint of what to do now. They would make it a bit farther still before Dean needed more direction, which he knew Sam was only making up as they went along, so Dean would let him sleep, for now. He couldn't make Sam feel the same way he did, see things the in the same light, and he couldn't learn these lessons for him, but he could do his best to help guide him there. Maybe they could both learn some things, at the end of it.


	19. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Monday, April 29th, 2002

Without the conversation as he drove, **Dean **had begun falling into the lull of sleep himself. Outside the small town of Minneola, Kansas, Dean exited the freeway and found them shelter at a motel called The Covered Wagon, a short strip excuse of a yellowing building that took up no more than a block. Sam woke at the short yelp of Dean's brakes when he pulled up to the curb, looking around.

"Leon?" He asked sleepily. He arched his back against the seat as he stretched his arms over his head, pushing his fists against the ceiling.

"Still Kansas. I think we have to stop, nap, regroup. Make our plan."

"We…have a plan." Sam sat up in his seat, rubbing his eyes. "Iowa."

"Then what? What happens in Iowa?"

Sam didn't answer but Dean never expected him to, till the moment passed and Sam said, "I don't know, what do people in Iowa do?"

"Alright." He left Sam behind in the cab when he climbed out. The main office was less shabby looking than the outside but Dean found it had that same-old small-town smell regardless. He passed his card to the young woman behind the counter who was busy making faces at him. He looked out the window to see Sam kicking rocks around their car, hands in the pockets of his jeans. His heart swelled. Every one of his nerves wished he could just fix everything for Sam. He knew what a whirlpool it was living in the confusion, where you were suddenly faced with decisions to problems you had no idea existed before. He wished -

A harsh beep from behind the counter caught his attention. The woman was turning around with Dean's card in her hand, a sympathetic frown on her face. "Sorry sir, but the machine declined your card. I can try it again, but I'm really only supposed to run a card once…"

Dean's eyes grew wide. "Oh." From his pocket he pulled out his wallet again, stared dumbly at the inside while he scrambled for what to do. He realized his mistake after a moment, having given her an old bank card he hadn't tossed yet. Once more across the counter Dean traded her for the right card. This one ran just fine, and Dean took the card back gratefully.

He hadn't exactly given himself all the time in the world to plan their trip but he had spared a thought towards his bank account. Rent wasn't exactly cheap in comparison to what he made working at the car shop but it did afford him a small - small - savings, that he was creating for a rainy day, where he could toss the extra five or ten bucks after each paycheck. It might not have been considered an emergency to anyone else, but Dean didn't hesitate cracking open that piggybank for this trip. It was meant to get them to the Grand Canyon and back, and really, that was the most it was going to do for them. He knew it was the simple mistake of passing over the wrong card, but it reawakened an anxiety which had gone to sleep on its own, so walking out of the manager's office, he spared a second to pray his money would stretch out long enough for Sam to come to his senses, wherever it was that trek took them.

He handed Sam his frayed duffel from the trunk and took his suitcase for himself. One hand on the trunk, his eyes landed on his box of traveling hunting supplies, and next to it, the luck charm, stuck halfway in his coat pocket where he ditched it before they'd eaten lunch. _So much for luck. _

He lowered the trunk before he could spare it a second glance, thinking that, until he could get a hold of River, it might be best to leave it alone.

It was some kind of luck, though, that once inside the musty room Sam remembered the map, left behind in the car. As soon as the door closed, Dean locked himself in the small bathroom and pressed his phone against his ear, first calling the bank, if only to make himself feel better - but not by much. Then, counting the rings, he was cursing at River to answer her fucking phone. It went to voicemail as it had the few times Dean called while Sam had slept, and he left one, as he had earlier, too. If he didn't get a hold of her soon, something was going to get a hold of them.

Almost as soon as he flipped his phone closed, it began vibrating again. Dad. He swallowed as the sense of foreboding grew stronger.

—

Not for the first time, although for entirely different reasons, **Sam **was glad for the silence that had settled between Dean and himself - it had given him the space to focus - and even though Sam had been hoping to add a few more miles between them and Salt Lake City - and John, by proxy - Kansas was as good a place as any. But really, he had all the time in the world now. Dean was with him, he had a couple bucks in his pocket, and nothing holding him in one place. This town of Minneola had just as much merit as any other town they had crossed along the way, Sam thought, just as much to look at, just as much opportunity to find…something. Sam paused. _To find something_. Why had he thought that?

He straightened out the map, fixed the creases after picking it up from the floor of the car. He saw his scrawling trail from the pen. He wanted to look at it all. Kansas, Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska. Maybe they would avoid the west for the time being, till they knew where John was, or where he wasn't. That would make things harder but Sam was willing to do the work to keep that distance between them as wide as he could. John would have to go back to Mississippi eventually, right? Yet, if he never did, it wouldn't be the first time he'd left everything behind for someplace else.

The backside of their dusty Covered Wagon hotel room hugged the same parking lot as the local grocery, which Sam disappeared inside once he'd the map in his back pocket. For a short while he wandered back in forth in the freezer sections, appreciating the chill in the air. It made him feel his fingers as they grew colder, his nerves lighting up to warn him of the cold. For as free as he'd felt planning their new route, his nerves had been a rocket in the sky ever since his call with John, and had only grown when his calls had stopped. John was a predictable man to a fault and even in his anxiety Sam had felt a layer of assuredness, knowing what John was going to do, and with each voicemail he'd left on Dean's phone Sam knew he was doing the right thing. Sam had forced himself to sleep only not to hear the vibration of the phone anymore.

Nonetheless, over the hours they'd driven, he found his nerves had gone numb. He flexed his fingers and enjoyed the tightness of his cold skin, till a face he didn't expect ran around the corner of the isle, short of breath, and locked his wide eyes with Sam's own. Dean sighed and wiped his sleeve across his upper lip.

"You gotta let me know where you're going, Sammy," he'd huffed, "anything can happen out here."

He'd thought then, _where _am _I going?_

They ate dinner on the floor of their hotel again, quieter this time than the night before, the map spread out between them. Sam noticed that Dean had come back agitated, flicking his fingers, popping his knuckles, casting his eyes around, but he did his best to ignore it. He didn't say much while Sam picked his way through the map and his dinner. Dean kept his phone on the floor next to him, but it didn't ring. Dean said the calls had stopped just after they got their room. Maybe that was why they were so quiet - they didn't want to miss the moment they finally started again.


	20. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Tuesday, April 30th, 2002

Neither would have believed that the Covered Wagon would be the type of place to have a complimentary breakfast, yet there they were. A door **Dean **hadn't noticed the day before led to a small room, the sort that would be used for breaks or a little storage, with a table set up along one wall displaying very low-maintenance food, in keeping with the rest of motel, Dean thought. A TV in the corner was turned to the news where they announced the weather; the reporter was sharing a storm warning, a swirling storm of yellows and reds that apparently started as a small windstorm in the mideast, before it picked up speed to run towards New Mexico, hanging out near the same place they had turned around the night before. Dean counted themselves lucky that they hadn't run into any storms as of yet, but it seemed, as the weather man went on, that it was making a U-turn in their direction. The forecast predicted it would die out before it made it much farther, though, now that it's reached the mountainous states. Nonetheless it was the wind in their sails, the fire under their asses, and the leak in the boat; Dean wanted to be driving away from it as soon as possible. Except he felt exhausted.

He had laid down the night before with his mind full of the ectoplasm leaking from their car, how completely unexplained it was, how he hoped his exorcism was enough to save them any more trouble. He'd stashed his EMF scanner under his pillow like it was his knife or gun, his fragile sleep interrupted by every little noise the old building made around them. Should he try to get some sleep? Stay awake? Cars, too, when they drove by, and the trains when they passed - he had absolutely none of the answers to anything that had happened. A handful of times had Dean pointed the EMF scanner, pulled out of the waters of sleep in a panic. Sometimes, nothing. Sometimes, though, the telltale beep of the meter screamed in the quiet the hotel room, and always in the direction of their door. But nothing brought them any harm. He'd smudged the room, set up the salt socks. That should be enough to keep things away. But, the luck charm should have been doing that, too. Maybe the world was turning itself upside down without Dean realizing. The sun began turning the sky colors outside their window as the eternal night came to an end, and today Sam wanted to leave for Leon.

They finished their meager breakfast and once again got in the car.

The hours passed as the miles did, flying passed the windows and under the tires while the two brothers sped away from Minneola. Neither noticed any sign of the impending storm, and neither wanted to - every bit of weather so far had been decent, more than they could have asked for. And Dean hoped it would be the least of his worries.

He had a sinking suspicion that Sam was playing a guessing game, in terms of 'planning' their route, and for the time being, Dean decided that he would let him. It would give Dean the time to plan, too, figure out how he was going to make…_this_ all work, and how he could do it before his account dried out. Decide quickly how he would smooth these seams between Sam and Dad now that Sam had torn everything up. If he even could. As much as he loved them both, he also knew how alike they were, and he knew two bulls would never do anything but ram each other. He didn't know how to fix this, if Sam wanted him to. But he would think of something.

John's calls started anew after breakfast and continued on while they drove, one every hour, nearly on the hour. At around 9 AM, just passed South Hutchinson, they'd picked up a new intensity, coming in like clockwork - every thirty minutes, a short burst of one after the other, then again thirty minutes later. Regardless, Dean still hadn't answered, and for some reason, was too afraid to turn it off. He reasoned that a powered-on cell phone was better in an emergency. At least that's what he said to himself.

The early morning air of Kansas that led in on a warmer afternoon was a departure from the more parched air of Texas, meeting a more livable medium similar to the couple of hours they'd spent in Oklahoma, though as the day carried on, so did the sun, and the clock. Sam pointed them towards Mullinville for a metal art installation, Greensburg for some hole in the ground - not the best alternative to the Grand Canyon - Newton to see the world's largest statue of something – if it was on the map, Sam wanted to stop. Fairly quickly the day grew warm in their adventures. Dean wished it wasn't the truth, but it didn't take long at all for the stops to grow into one muddled blur in his vision, for his tired brain to gloss over some of the details and to lose others entirely, until the road was nothing greater than a series of Sam's pointing finger and different exit ramps, blinkers and passing semis.

They came to a stop in Strong City, a few more than two hundred miles away from Minneola, where Sam had been excited to stop at a wildlife preserve just beyond the city limits, and Dean was happy to oblige - it was his hope that he could get the chance to shut his eyes for longer than five minutes while Sam was looking around. The aimlessness of their driving was spinning his head, his eyelids growing steadily heavier with each passing mile and attraction. It was in the stark silence of the car, however, while the sun beat down on the roof, turning the inside stuffy without the air blowing, that he noticed he'd just let Sam walk out on his own. Without him. And without their luck charm. And it was inside that realization that he fell upon a second one: he didn't need the charm any more to begin with. It came to him like a spark of light, slamming his tired eyes open and his pulse into first gear.

It had been the entire point of River - of bringing a witch into his plans - and of the charm itself, to make Sam believe that things around Dean were safe, livable, away from the depths black parts of the hunting world that Sam hated so much so that he might stay in his life. It was the reason he'd cost himself so much sleep and sanity. But now Sam had made that decision to stay, albeit not in Mississippi, but with Dean. He was no longer the bad guy. He was safe. The job had been done, he didn't need the thing anymore.

Of course, he couldn't forget how…'interesting' things had become during this trip, either. Something had given him a bad feeling at the Little Rock high school in Arkansas, something had gouged their hotel door in Elk City, another had followed them around the Route 66 museum, and whether that was the same thing or a hundred different things, he had no way to tell. Their _car_ had gotten possessed in Amarillo, and he could have sworn he saw a headless body in the fields as they drove away from the Cadillac Ranch, where Sam had professed his Mississippi exodus. The frequency was abnormal, he understood. You only saw ghosts on hauntings, if there was a relic of their past locked in a drawer or their decayed bones buried behind the barn, that kind of thing, and whether or not those things were true on each of these run-ins, the fact of the matter was that the charm hadn't been what was keeping them safe. It had been his salt socks in front of the windows and the sigils he placed in front of the doors. He believed that with all his might, now. Why else would these issues be coming up in the first place? What kind of luck was this supposed to be?

It was with the certainty in his heart and the charm a dead lump in his pocket that he exited the vehicle and found a trash by the bathrooms of the visitor's center. He looked around, then over his shoulder. With one hand he opened the lid of the can, and tossed the charm inside with the other. The purple color of the crushed velvet bag was a beacon on top of discarded garbage and wildlife reserve flyers. He released his breath. The guilt he anticipated - he didn't feel a drop of it as he put the lid back on, covering the charm with darkness.

He did feel, however, twenty minutes later when Sam finally opened the passenger door and climbed in the car, panic. Panic at the sudden contents of his coat pocket, mistaken for his keys, which absolutely was not. He pinched the fabric and choked at the familiar, smooth texture of a crushed velvet drawstring bag in his pocket once more.

Again in Hartford he tried to can the charm, and a third time in Miller, but in Carbondale, when the fourth prickle of fear at its reappearance in his pocket was old news, he started believing that something else was going on. He remembered back to River's porch, adding his hair to the pouch, when she called it 'activating the spell'.

If he couldn't ditch the charm, he would just have to take back his hair.

But he couldn't do that till he had some form of privacy enough to dump out whatever it was that filled the bag, and Dean's distrust of witches was going nowhere but deeper. At this point, any number of evils could be inside the bag, no matter how nice the fabric felt or how bright the color. _That's how they get you_, Dean thought, _just make it attractive_. Witches.

He'd begun to feel his tiredness like a deadening of his hands, pulsing along with his heart like it was a drug. And it felt that way - it was convincing, alluring, so that Dean didn't know if he had another stop in him. The storm that the morning news had warned about, and which every forecaster on the radio had been discussing during the past eight hours in Kansas, had amazingly changed direction after all. It was coming up fast on their heels, picking up speed like a schoolyard bully chasing them down, and the clear sky Sam and Dean had enjoyed earlier that morning was dipping into the cooler tones of the gathering clouds. Dean was afraid of getting caught in it, wanted to outrun it if he could, but each blink began lasting a fraction of a second longer than the one before. Just outside of Topeka, Kansas, where they were lasting seconds at a time, he knew it was time to stop.

Sam had been a little disappointed - contrary to his own tiredness, Dean could see - at having to rest, but they eventually came to an agreement: they would take a small nap in the car, gas up, and take off again before the storm could get any closer. That was, if they could find a place to park their car.

Dean didn't trust the flowing crowd of gas stations or super-centers to leave their car alone while they slept, and Sam himself didn't find much comfort in the idea of sleeping at a park. Other shopping areas were staked with warnings of parked cars being towed. It was beginning to seem to Dean they would have to get a room somewhere, a fact he didn't accept until almost falling asleep at a stop light.

He settled on the first motel he saw and stumbled into the manager's office, yet again spending more money than he wanted just to have a few hours' sleep, and turned the TV on to its lowest volume once inside. The local news was warning of this familiar impeding storm, predicting a trail headed right through Kansas. The wind outside had picked up, but was nothing yet to shake a stick at.

The routine of the salt, sigils, and sage was performed in record time, and when he was done, excused himself to the privacy of the bathroom. The hotel bathroom was small as always, this one with a floor of carpeting, and the toilet, Dean realized, was the kind you would see yourself in the mirror if you sat on it. Luckily, all he needed was a door that locked, and he'd gotten so lucky. He removed the charm from his pocket and set it on the counter. Each movement was made in silence, as though his guilt would be proven by sound alone, Sam barging through the door and sentencing him at the slightest sound of a rustle. Dean didn't know where to start.

The charm was not a drawstring, he noticed in that moment. It appeared to be more along the lines of a square of cloth tied together with a length of cord, like the hobo's knapsack at the end of their stick. The cord was golden in color and frayed at the ends, slick under his touch like a paracord, and when trying to wedge his finger inside the knot he found that he couldn't, all his might behind prying the mouth of the charm open, trying to force his fingers passed the rim. Something wasn't letting him in, he figured. Whatever kind of magic that was binding the charm to his side was also keeping him out. He sighed hard, like a laugh, rubbed at an eye with his palm. Wasn't going to be that easy. Who could help him?

Nobody, if he didn't get some sleep.

Back in the main room, Sam had taken claim of one bed, face down in the pillow. Dean settled down on the other. "A few hours, Sammy, then that's it." Dean punched the pillow under his head into submission. "I don't want to die in Kansas just 'cause a storm came through."

Sam threw out a thumb in agreement and let it fall. The charm was a knife in Dean's ribs while he fell asleep.


	21. October 30th, 2005 (Lunch)

_October 30th, 2005_

_Lunch._

_Your school councilor is an old man named Mr. Triblow, whose glasses always sit just on the end of his nose and probably hasn't gone a day since 1970 without wearing one of those jackets with leather patches over the elbows. Your peers are apt to paint him as a man of many, many words, none of them nice, which you're keen to agree with. Even so, he was willing to meet during your lunch break from work, with the promise of good news. And on a Sunday, no less._

_He looks at you over the rims of his glasses when you enter the door into his dark office. He has the shutters closed. The only light comes from a yellow bulb on his desk, an old banker's lamp. It makes the office feel stuffier. With a thin grin he sets down his pen and pulls his glasses off to meet you._

_"Mr. Winchester. You'll be glad you made the trip down - I've got something for you."_

_Mr. Triblow slowly pushes himself up from his chair and turns to a row of folders sat next to his computer screen. His knobby fingers begin picking through the rolodex while you stand watching, yawn, and look around._

_On the way here, you were almost hit by a taxi as you stepped off the curb. And at work, the blade of the milkshake machine broke off while you were using it. Your hand is fine, but you'll need a new apron. _

_Something is out there - you're firmer in that belief now more than ever, can feel it like your own shadow, and you can't pin it, but you don't need to. A fire burns whether you're watching it or not. The tree still falls if no one's around to hear it, et cetera. And soon, you feel, it's going to fall on you._

_This is why you jump when Mr. Triblow shouts a eureka, swinging an envelope into the air like a sword before bringing it down for you to see. On the front is written, 'Sam. W'. He holds it out for you to take. _

_When you do, Mr. Triblow pulls it back, just an inch, looking you in the eyes with his own watery two._

_"I have to say, Samuel, with a grade like this you ought to be proud of yourself. That's more than I can say about some of your fellows." He finishes with a slow wink. He finally lets you pull the letter out of his grip._

_You read the news. 174._

_A near perfect score._

_"Don't leave just yet, Mr. Winchester, there's more good news." Mr. Triblow groans while he lowers himself back into his chair. He opens a leather-bound desktop calendar as long as the room, flipping through the weeks until he finds the one he's looking for. "You've got yourself an interview. On Monday, in fact. Now, it's a little unorthodox to hold one on such short notice, but there would be conflicts of appointments otherwise or some nonsense. You'll be a fool to miss it, regardless. Anyway, if all goes well, you'll get accepted into the program, and even get yourself a nice little chunk of change, too." _

_He offers you another languid smile, his face framed in the shadows in an eerie way. You hear the faint cracks of the tree beginning to sway._


	22. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Tuesday, April 30th, 2002

If Sam wasn't getting strangled to death by already-dead people, he was being shot point blank while **Dean** was forced to watch. And the instances where Dean was able to reach him in time, something would move Dean's hand for him, always plunging a knife in his chest or twisting his neck. These shows lasted hours, some minutes, others seconds, but the outcome was always the same - Sam, dead on the ground while figures in the shadows watched and the blood dripping from Dean's fingertips. He felt trapped.

It was no better when he opened his eyes. The hotel room had fallen into darkness somewhere during the time he'd slept, the same darkness of his nightmare palace, and every piece of his body was suddenly filled with concrete. His body wasn't moving. The figures, the phantoms - he knew they were standing just outside of his vision as they had in his head, waiting for their next chance to reach Sam. His heart was climbing out of his mouth while he could do nothing but stare at the ceiling and try to catch his breath. The breath he now shared with the misted apparition stooping in over him.

The room was thrown into a whiteness that startled Dean all the more in its unexpectedness, breaking his reverie and scattering the figure in a hundred different directions. He vaguely heard a voice at the corners of his thoughts, but paid it no mind. His chest was finally expanding. He was only concerned with catching his breath.

"Dean!" Sam grabbed him by the shoulders then, the far-away voice sliding into focus as oxygen finally reached his brain. The sleep addled places and thoughts in Dean's brain caused him to jump away from Sam, who himself looked how Dean felt, but they both settled down as the seconds passed.

Until Dean knew once again they weren't alone. In the shadow of the wall, a man was standing in front of their door.

It had only been a glimpse, but Dean had seen him. A man in a worn-out suit, undone at the cuffs and collar, waterlogged hair wet against his skull. Sam registered Dean's glance and turned around. The specter fizzled into nothing, the air as empty as it had been before.

But Sam had seen it too. The shock turned his face pale in the yellow light from the bedside lamp. Dean fished his hand inside of the nightstand drawer and grasped the heavy Bible, clutched it tight, not out of piousness but so he had something solid to throw.

"Get your shit and get out, Sam."

Sam spun on his heel and grabbed the map from the floor, the only thing he'd brought inside, cast aside in his trade for sleep, meanwhile Dean made quick strides towards the door, taking stock of the room. The floor where the drowned ghost had stood was dark from the drops of water that had fallen from his swollen hands. He felt Sam come up behind him, took a step forward just as the figure reappeared at his post.

Dean froze. It was as if the paralysis hadn't truly left him. Distantly, he wondered if he was yet again in another nightmare - the script had been changed at the point where Dean was finally allowed to touch the Bible - the nightmare had always reset whenever he did anything but hurt his brother - but a guy could never be too careful. Regardless, Dean's stomach rolled at the sensation of his own body failing him, the ghost taking a limping step forward. His hand shook on the Bible, his grip so sturdy and the sight in front of his so grim that his muscles were in tremors. The suited ghost raised a dead arm, as if to grab, took another step, his waiting hand an inch away from Dean's heart.

"Dean!"

Dean's muscles obeyed and the Bible arced in a swing through the air. He would have felt the contact if this had been any normal situation, but the pages fluttered towards the dead man's head, and continued on through. His form dissipated a second time. Dean grabbed Sam's hand, pulled him through the disappearing mist, and out into the darkness of the night.

A cool wind caught the edges of Dean's coat, who spared half a second to register that the sun really had gone down. Sam rounded the car like a flash. As he threw open the passenger door, Dean knew he had to look back. The man stood in front of the open hotel door, glaring daggers at Dean across the threshold. The ghost and the hunter both looked down in unison; he was trapped, unable to pass over Dean's sigil doormat. A sick laugh rose into Dean's throat, and he wasted no more time getting behind the wheel and slamming the key to the on position. The sounds of their peeling tires joined the growing wind as he sped away. The ghost was the color of the night in his review; if he was still there when Dean took the next turn, he couldn't know.

Their hearts were working faster than the pistons in the engine, propelling them away and through Topeka's streets aimlessly till Dean could pull enough brain power together to point them to the highway once more. Dean couldn't release his death grip on the steering wheel for another ten minutes. He wanted to pull over onto the shoulder now that they were out of harm's way, collect his thoughts and catch his breath, but it was beginning to seem to Dean that these kinds of things would only keep happening the longer they stayed still. This drowned ghost, the scratches against their door in Elk City, the puddle of ectoplasm coming from their car, all taking place during the times they spent too long in one place. The time on the radio read just after 10 PM. More sleep than Dean was hoping to get, and least of all the ways he wanted to be woken up.

"Thought I was done with things like that." Sam was forcing the tips of his fingers into his eyes as if he could pry away the danger he'd found himself in. "So much for the routine, huh?"

"I did it out of order," Dean said, as much a realization to himself and an excuse to Sam.

Sam flicked his attention to him, hands poised clenched in front of his face

"I burnt the sage last, after putting the - the salt and the doormat down. Fucker couldn't go anywhere. Probably just pissed him off." He offered Sam a flaccid smile, a slow blink.

Sam studied his face, mouth thinning. He looked away. "Just…don't do that again."

"You could have helped, you know. Was he giving you nightmares, too?"

A silent moment passed between them. Dean glanced over at Sam. He was staring straight ahead. Finally, he answered, a short and simple, "Yeah."

"Was he…what was happening in them?"

Dean heard the paper map crinkle, turned and saw Sam extracting the crumpled wad from his pocket where he'd forced it in their rush. After a moment of smoothing out the paper against the dashboard, squinting in the dimness of the interior light, he said, "This turnpike's got a toll somewhere. Just a head's up."

—

**Dean** hadn't yet bothered putting on a tape or even turning up the radio. It would only add to his nerves, he thought, and as the next few minutes passed he didn't need anything more weighing him down. The sight of the ghost above his face had been real, then, as were its very real intentions that had spent hours poring through their nightmares. Dean put a hand to his heart distractedly, felt the charm there, like always. The dead man's dripping, distended hand had been only one final motion away from Dean's chest. And he'd only stood there, frozen in shock. He couldn't shake that thought, and every time it revisited him he broke out in a new set of chills. Despite the early summer month, Dean had the heater on a smidge, trying to melt them away. The night was dark and the air outside felt cold.

His own stupidity had finally put Sam in a very real amount of danger this time. This was the reason Sam wanted out, he knew, away from Dean. He realized he didn't have a say in the moment - once the ghost had them trapped inside the horrific cycle of nightmares, the two were simply his playthings - but it had been his own faults which had caused it. If he hadn't broken Sam's trust yet, he would only have to work harder to make it strong again. No more long stops, no hotel rooms - this was going to be strictly a stop-and-go trip from then on out. He didn't know how he was going to make it out alive, but that was a problem he would worry about when it came. If this was going to work then he would have to do whatever it took. In the meantime, he would think of someway to be rid of the damn charm.

He had to wonder, though, if the magic inside the charm was so concerned with never leaving his side, why hadn't it done so before? It hadn't suddenly appeared in his pocket during their walk the day before in Amarillo after their lunch break, or during any of the other times it had been left in the trunk during the bathroom or the gas breaks, or even at their hotel in Elk City. It hadn't been until his first attempt at disposal that he'd noticed the phenomenon at all.

Of that he was certain. No, this mess had something to do with him trying to throw it away. This hex - because he couldn't call it a charm any longer - had his hair in it; it was tied to him somehow, tied to his intent. That was how magic worked, right? It was the power behind a person's intentions, and that was the root of where Dean's distaste for witches lied, he concluded, why he felt them and their magic was so unpredictable - you could never tell what another person was thinking.

Half an hour into the drive, Dean realized Sam hadn't truly given him directions.

"Hey, Sammy, I don't know where - "

Sam's cheek was pressed up against the window, the glass at his nose cloudy from his breathing, asleep. So badly did Dean want to join him in that realm. How long had it been since an uninterrupted sleep? Four days? It had started feeling like an eternity. Carefully, Dean pulled the crumpled map from Sam's grip. His hand gave a phantom grasp and settled again. Dean smiled fondly, cut off by a yawn.

On the empty road Dean turned on the interior light and found their position on the map, keeping them in their lane with his knee on the wheel. All these black lines, Dean thought. It's like a kid trying to solve a maze. He couldn't predict what Sam was taking them to Leon for, though he had a feeling Sam didn't know, either. The specifics of their days living there were lost to time but Dean knew Sam couldn't have been older than ten, nowhere near old enough to have anything there worth missing. Right? He looked at his brother, yellow from the light. _What are you hoping to find, Sam?_

A streetlight passed overhead, moving across them like a searching beacon. Dean glanced up and caught the last hints of a traffic sign as they moved passed an exit. His eyes widened. He hit the brakes.

The force jolted Sam awake next to him, who braced himself against the dash, letting go of a startled shout. Dust drifting passed the car as it came to a halt on the empty, dark road.

"What the fuck, Dean? What is it now?"

But Dean didn't answer. He threw the transmission in reverse and hit the gas, throwing Sam against the dash a second time. The road sign came back into view, their yellow headlights bouncing off the reflective paint. Dean's suspicion was confirmed – he'd read it right.

Exit 204: Lawrence.

—

**Sam** clutched the door handle while the fresh panic ran through brain. Sam stared at Dean and Dean stared out the windshield. A shine of bewilderment had fallen over his face. Outside the window, the headlights illuminated an exit sign.

"Lawrence," Dean breathed. "I completely…we're in Kansas."

Sam let out his breath, doubtful, looking at Dean and back to the exit sign.

Sam said, "Lawrence."

Dean had opened up in a smile as large as he could go. "Lawrence!" The ambient lights glinted off his teeth. Sam thought he knew the direction this was going, but he wanted to be sure.

"And…"

Dean stopped with his hand on the gear shift, his smile drooping slightly while his brow furrowed. "What? Are you kidding?" Sam wasn't going to answer, wanted Dean to say it on his own. "Our house, Sam."

His suspicion was confirmed. He almost nodded to himself. "Our house burned down. Almost like, nineteen years ago."

"Not completely it didn't, they rebuilt it." Dean handed him back something, the map, and he realized it wasn't in his lap anymore. Dean went on, "But this is like, home base, you know? Where it all started. We're here, you don't think it'd be wrong not to stop?"

"We – what? No, I don't - think that. For what? It's the middle of the night, we're just going to go stare at some stranger's house?" Sam looked harder at him; he seemed genuine.

"Yeah, why not?" The smile was leaking out of Dean's voice now.

"Because I don't want to – it'll be pointless – "

"This is my trip, too, Sam." This was said in his 'I'm not talking about this anymore' voice. He was looking at Sam with intense eyes and his jaw out, bottom teeth bared in the way he did sometimes, when he was being serious. Sam felt a flush beginning to grow up his neck but held his ground while Dean studied him. "What's gotten into you?" He paused. "I mean, I've gone everywhere you wanted."

Sam opened his mouth but was even more surprised that he didn't have anything to say. The beginnings of frustration was blooming in his chest, like a second heartbeat. John used to say those words to him all the time – what's gotten into you? – whenever he had even the vaguest feeling that Sam might have been talking at him. The question was usually unfounded, but Sam had seen the other side of this argument enough times to understand what the repercussions were if he answered his question honestly. The fact that Dean was the one asking it this time was…disconcerting. Nothing was wrong with him.

But he had to remember that this wasn't John. He supposed he had been a little selfish that day, calling for a stops so often. Not asking Dean if he was alright, or if he had any stops he wanted to make. And to the point that Dean was literally falling asleep at the wheel. So he sat back in his chair and left the question where it belonged. Dean might have been his brother, they may love each other, but Sam didn't need to offer answers to anything he didn't want to anymore.

The town of Lawrence was dark and dead, the midnight hour finding people asleep or otherwise in their homes. They drove on slowly through the neon lights of the city streets. Metro steadily devolved into residential, and Dean drove and turned and drove some more without any prompt for directions. He himself wouldn't have been able to do that. He realized then that he'd never known what their old address was, let alone heard it in passing. He was finding this feeling of being in a silent night reasonably freeing. It was similar to that which he felt on the rainier days, when overcast choked out the sun. No one expected anything of you. You could swim through the world with an ease, knowing that the time was your own and owed it to no one else. Dean had the windows rolled down, and Sam took the humid air in a deep breath, feeling the temperature in his chest.

Finally Dean eased to a stop at the curb in the middle of a block of homes. Sam knew they'd arrived, knew what would be outside the driver's side window if he only turned to see, but he wasn't going to. The growing flower of frustration in his chest curled his lip and he focused harder on the dashboard. He would not look. No matter what Dean had to say.

Who, as it turned out, said nothing. Sam heard the door open, felt the car wag as its load lightened, and felt his hair blown by the force by Dean closing it once more.

The minutes trailed by as Sam's hopes of being left alone grew. Crickets inside the suburban bushes played their instruments for the neighborhood to hear, joining the other players in the concert of the night - the breeze through the trees, the buzz of electricity passing through the telephone wires overhead, the low timber of far away cars hitting the rumble strip on the highway. At one point in time Dean probably played on these streets, maybe with neighbor kids. Sam discovered a lone window in a distant house turned a bright yellow against the darkness, found himself wondering how this person was spending their endless night.

Dean was saying something Sam missed. Sam sighed and shook his head, rolling his jaw. When he looked out the driver's side window, he found Dean was blocking the view of the house, much to his pleasure. "What?"

"I said, someone's got curtain's up in your old room." Sam made a noise of acknowledgment. "We only had the blinds in there. When you were a baby."

"You remember a lot about the house considering you were only three-years-old."

"I was four. I guess certain things make an impression on you, you know? Come stand with me outside a while."

Sam turned his gaze forward again as if he'd gotten caught looking after all. "I'm alright."

"Then come be alright out here with your brother."

Sam gave a hard sigh. "Dean, this house…doesn't mean anything to me."

Dean turn to look over his shoulder, through the window.

Dean asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I have absolutely no memories of this house. You realize that, right?"

Dean frowned. "Yeah, I guess you wouldn't."

"You remember the curtains I had in my old room and probably what the living room looked like, but do you know what my first memory is? It's sitting on Bobby's floor with you reading to me, years after mom died. Then after that, it's you and me watching cartoons on a hotel TV, who knows where. You could be lying about my curtains and I'd never know it."

"Well hold on there, I wouldn't lie to you - "

"That isn't my point, I'm saying all these things you and dad bring up about mom and about the house - I have no idea what you guys are talking about. All these things are yours. But they aren't mine."

Dean had turned back to face the house. Sam turned to talk to the dashboard. "These things didn't happen to me. You lost mom, but I never had her. What happened to me were the times dad forced me out of school, sold my things. Made me hold the flashlight while he dug the graves for the bodies - or dug up the bodies. That's mine."

"To be fair, you asked to go on hunts with us." Dean spoke low but with nothing other than plain honesty.

"Yeah, and who lets a twelve-year-old stake vampires, Dean? He never should have let me in the first place."

They didn't talk again before Dean shoved off the car to sit back in his seat a few minutes later. The interior lights flooded the car in brightness, dimming as they breathed once the door was closed. He didn't start the engine, though, sitting in the inky hum of silence.

When Dean spoke again it was in an almost imperceptible voice, low and husky in his tiredness. "I'm glad you're here with me, Sammy. Otherwise I wouldn't know…" Dean made a wide gesture indicating the sum of Sam's words. "You know? This. I'm sorry I assumed this would be your thing, too. I guess we are a little different, after all."

Dean smiled softly at him, but Sam was waiting for some ball to drop while he studied Dean's expression. It was friendly, he found, and he decided to trust it.

He watched closely while Dean reached a hand past the speedometer and grabbed the map off the dash. "Listen," he said, tapping the overhead light awake to see the map. In the light, Dean had strong shadows underneath his eyes. "There's someone in Indianapolis I think I want to see. It's a bit of a drive, but hopefully you don't mind, uh…skipping Leon. For now, at least."

This wasn't the immediate response Sam was expecting, though he'd take it. "No, Leon was just, uh - a place where I thought there'd be some…" He trailed away. At first it was a name on the map that he'd recognized for a moment, but as the day had passed he thought it had turned into a kind of lighthouse. There were roots there of some sort, he could reclaim them, maybe? Staring Dean in the face, though, he was beginning to see how thin that plan was in the first place. And how selfish he'd acted in his hopes. "It just seemed like a good place to start. Anyway. I'm sorry that I - " Sam swallowed despite himself. "Got angry before, on the highway, since, you're right. This is your trip too, I just got a little caught up in it."

Dean waved his hand without looking up from the map, brushing away not the apology, Sam knew, but the original offense. "Don't sweat it, Sammy, I get it. Listen, we could always go back to Lyon anyway. There's still time."

Sam huffed out a sigh, let himself fall back against the headrest. That wasn't what he wanted. Going back was going to kill him. It would be like throwing himself into an empty grave. If he went back and saw Claudia somewhere…

Sam thought, _save myself the shame and just kill myself now_.

However, out loud, he said, "No, there's no point going back. I'm never going to hear about my Stanford applications - I should have by now. And to see dad again, show my face around there, that would hurt worse than anything he would do to my body. There's nothing there for me anymore."

Dean gave a half-hearted chuckle, saying, "There might not be for you, but all my stuff is there. And my job."

Sam didn't say anything back. He listened to the paper crinkles as Dean fidgeted around with the map.

"Is this 'cause of Claudia? Why you don't want to go back?"

Sam's heart clenched in chagrin. He looked harder out the window. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay. Or is it just dad?"

"That's talking about it."

Dean sighed. "I won't force you to go back, Sammy. But we'll have to do something sooner or later. When this all blows over, we'll figure something out. We always do."

He didn't know if this was ever going to blow over. Would they drive around the country till they settled on a spot, or till John got a hold of them like he always did?

Sam asked, "You don't want to try and find a room or anything? It's the middle of the night."

Dean pointed the pen like a baton, right at Sam, but when he talked his voice carried the lilt of nervousness. "Actually, if it doesn't make a difference to you, I thinking we should drive through the night instead, and we can clean up at my buddy's place in Indiana. The - " Dean flicked is eyes over his shoulder and twirled the pen to point behind them. "The storm they say is coming, and all that. Right?"

Sam tilted his head slightly, getting a better look at Dean. "Are you alright to drive? You aren't tired?"

Dean waved it away again, frowning as he shook his head. "No, I could drive all day. I'm a professional, remember?" He gave a smile - or tried too, Sam thought. There was no denying the drained look his on face. It was in the dying corners of his eyes and the shadows underneath them. His smile had lost its luster over the day, too. But if the man said he was fine, Sam wouldn't argue with him. Who was to say he did look the same when he towed truck? If there was anyone who could, he reasoned it was Dean.

In the instant it didn't matter to Sam, he was just tired himself. He hadn't sat in the back seat once the entire trip but there was a first time for everything, he thought, while he laid down on a balled-up coat he'd shoved against the door. In a moment of thought Sam made the connection that his family's touchstone in time was never by the date Sam was born, or when Dean was born, it was never when Sam started school or when Dean started walking, when John and their mom got married. It was always the date of their mother's death, the day she was pinned to the ceiling and her life stolen, and at that moment forward their lives had both ended and began, it seemed - at least, Sam's certainly had. His life was so closely referenced to the date of his mother's death, a person he'd never known or gotten the chance to be loved by, that it was nearly insufferable. At the very least Dean had gotten four years with her and John many more than that, and each had their own insights and memories of her and this home, but Sam was just a witness to them. He had become a spectator to his own life almost as soon as he was born. His anger wasn't about the house, and he hoped Dean understood that. But it was no wonder he could never really sympathize with Sam.

He couldn't say where it happened or even how long it had been, but it was like clockwork - the car began moving, rocking him like the bassinet of a newborn, and he was asleep.


	23. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

For **Dean**, the next six hours passed in a haze. Kansas turned into Missouri in not much more than name. The road looked the same, the night looked the same; the only difference from one moment to the next was what tape he chose to play at the time. He was beginning to feel his tiredness like a cloak thrown over his shoulders, a weight on his back, could taste it in his mouth, even. But he was not going to stop for the relief of sleep until they reached Indianapolis, and he could get rid of this charm, and the small excitement he felt was a warmth. The road was silent on this early morning Wednesday, which gave him plenty of time to think and give their problems the old college try. Because he thought he'd discovered the problem, or at least confirmed his idea, and it came in the middle of Creedence Clearwater Revival's warning - there was a bad moon a'rising.

If Dean was right and the charm was working on nothing more than intent - be that his or River's - then there had to be a way to trick the bag into believing it had simply been dropped. No ill will or plans on trashing it, nothing more than an accidental bump in the road. If it had slipped out of his fingers by nothing more than chance, he shouldn't feel the weight of the charm in his pocket again. And so it came to be, outside of Columbia, Dean put his arm out the window, with the charm held loosely in his hand, the tassels flipping about in the wind - coincidentally, obviously. And as he drove, he couldn't be blamed that his hand would relax in his grip, and had no say when he didn't move in time to avoid a pothole, and the charm slipped from his fingers. He cut his mind off right at that moment, repeated the thought to himself - _I am holding the charm_ \- again and again. When finally the joints in his arm started to ache from the angle he was resting out the window, he brought himself back in the car to discover with feigned shock that he'd lost the charm. He put himself through the act of being frustrated with himself, upset to have lost their only source of luck, and chocked it up to fate.

Quietly, to himself, he shared a devilish grin at the success. And it was in that exact moment he felt the fabric of his breast pocket swell in the familiar way, suddenly full with a feeling overtly similar to the charm. So, it would work as long as he could convince himself, that was. _This is so stupid_.

He tried a handful of more times to be rid of the charm, reminding himself of his mad dash through Kansas the day before when he tried every trash can he came by. But it never failed that the charm would reassert itself in his pocket each and every time. He knew he wasn't going to be able to convince himself for the rest of his life that he hadn't dropped something. But he wasn't mad - he hadn't really expected it to work, anyway. Hopefully he would find the help he needed in Indianapolis, though they hadn't answered Dean's phone calls, hopefully due to the hour.

But he had a stop to make along the way, first. Driving on, eventually he crossed the bridge over the Mississippi River, passing the road sign 'Illinois State Line', and he started wringing the rubber of the steering wheel. The car dipped coming off the bridge on the other side, and Dean hoped Sam wouldn't wake up just yet, glancing at him in the rearview.

As he approached Greenville so did the sun on the horizon. Already the black had begun giving way to the colors of the day, like a gate being opened to let in the spilling sun. Dean couldn't deny feeling refreshed at sunrise. The nights lasted so long, sometimes, it was easy to forget that time still moved on. Sunrise always gave him a sense of expectation, a readiness for the coming day, that he appreciated. But he wasn't sure if he was ready for this. When the speed limit dropped and he began recognizing the road names from the map, he knew he was close.

The northern edge of Greenville, Illinois, was just that - green - though still at slumber under the waking morning. The streets were peaceful and held a calm in the air, though Dean was nervous. When he came to a certain stop in the gravel alongside the road, he had to convince himself to let go of the steering wheel.

A glance in the rearview - _still asleep_, Dean thought, curled up on himself in the back. Some conversations required privacy and this was another that Sam wouldn't have appreciated anyway. Dean removed himself from the car carefully. He passed between a pair of stone pillars, looking up to read a large metal work sign announcing the location: Montrose Cemetery.

Dean walked the narrow paved path with his hands in his pockets against the chilled air, spare loose gravel crunching against his boots. The air was still, suspended. A fog had settled in the dips of the small hills, yet even as he looked it was drifting away, warmed by the sun, evaporating away to join the ghosts in the daylight. Dean wasn't chilled. He wasn't a stranger to cemeteries or the things and people they buried but he would always believe the tombstones to be the most unsettling thing about them - a marker that, even in death, would announce the unfinished business of whoever was buried beneath. A ghost in its own right, he supposed. He shrugged his shoulders to block the breeze from his ears. The charm pressed into his ribs with the flex of the coat. Now in the encroaching daylight he could see black clouds in the far east. He wouldn't have as much time here as he thought.

He had never actually been here himself, had only heard the name and location in garbled bits of dialogue from his dad's end of a phone call. Montrose Cemetery, Greenville, Illinois. Nothing after that. In truth, even making this stop had been a bit of a gamble, a goose chase. But he wanted to try.

After some searching, the last of the fog burned away, Dean found the marker he was looking for, one in a line of countless others. Unique from most of the other gravestones, though, not in appearance but in the fact that this one did not have a body under it. Dean squatted in front of it and followed the engraved words with his fingers.

_Mary Winchester_

_1954 - 1983_

_Sister, daughter, mother_

For a long moment Dean rocked in the impermeable silence around him. There was no better place for mournfulness than a graveyard. When it was as if the world itself stopped spinning for a moment, to offer you up some peace. His mother's marker was a dull gray section of granite, payed for and placed by an uncle whose name Dean didn't know. A tendril of a creeping vine had started to grow from a crook where the stone met the earth, and it had only been here for nineteen years but Dean could see the sharpness of the letters was beginning to meet the deteriorating hands of the clock. He sat finally in the cold grass. He felt the bite of cold water beginning to soak through his jeans.

_I don't know what to do here, mom_, Dean projected. He knew this wasn't Mary's resting place. He didn't have any delusion that she might hear him better here than any place else, if she ever heard him at all. But she was always with him in thought, nonetheless - and it was a comfort to be someplace he could see her name spelled out and not attach his dad to the memories.

_I thought getting Sam away from dad would make things better_, Dean thought while twirling a plucked blade of grass in his fingers. _But now I'm not so sure. I don't know how to keep this up. It's only been a year we were apart but…so much is already different. _

He glanced up then, stared at the engraved stone where it spelled out 'Mary' in bold cursive font, thinking if he waited she would fill in her half of the conversation with him. He was just being hopeful, but even as he stared the sun rose and the gray stone became drenched in the encroaching light, then him, too, and he felt the first tendrils of warmth hitting his skin. That was an answer enough, he supposed. He stood and brushed a few blades of loose grass off his jeans. While he turned to leave, he let his hand trail across the top of the gravestone, stepping out of the patch of sun.

Sam was thankfully still asleep when Dean returned. When he crossed the property line of the cemetery the sounds of the waking world seemed to fall around him like a crash, no longer held back by the stone pillars at the entrance. With an arm behind the passenger seat for leverage Dean twisted in place to back up, stopping instead for a moment to watch the sleeping boy - young man - in his backseat. Across the points of Sam's chin, a bit above his upper lip, Dean could see the new growth of his beard. Dean's heart gave a twist.

_We're all growing older_.

He pulled away from the roadside gravel and got them back on the road.

—

When next **Sam **opened his eyes the speakers were playing the Styx tape again, and Sam's body was warm with fondness. The seat hadn't been the world's most comfortable place to sleep but he'd learned early in his life to make due, find comfort where he could get it. This was better than the ground, and while he might not have slept the entire night through, his felt better rested than he had before. It was a reminder of a nicer set of memories as a kid; waking up every so often and seeing the back of Dean's head in the front.

He stretched as best he could in the narrow backseat. Dean looked over his shoulder, saying, "Mornin', sunshine."

"We there yet?"

Dean hummed a laugh, their favorite joke that could be made in their life on the road. "About an hour more."

He ended his stretch and relaxed back into the cushions, staring at the cloth lining of the ceiling.

"Did you drive all night?" Sam asked.

Dean rolled a shoulder, nodding confirmation.

"Where did you get this car from so last minute?"

"My boss." His voice was hoarse. Dean cleared his throat, went on, "My boss loaned it to me when I told him my little brother was going off to college, and I needed a car for the trip."

"No way, he just gave it to you?"

"No, not gave, loaned I said. He wasn't thrilled to give me a week off but I just had to make sure my shifts were covered, so. I do have to give it back."

Sam smiled at the sentiment until the words sank into his brain. Dean would have to give the car back. That didn't fit into his plans but he reasoned there were ways around it. They passed semis transporting cars on the freeway all the time. He put it in the back of his brain till the time came to worry about it.

"Who's in Indianapolis?"

"There's a…" Dean gestured back and forth, beckoning the right words to come to him, "hunter friend, you could call him, who I hear's moved into Indianapolis recently. I thought it would be good to stop by and see him."

"A hunter friend, do I know him?"

"Do you remember Jameson?" Dean was glancing back and forth into the review mirror and the road as he talked.

"Should I?"

"You were pretty little when we lived in Indiana, so no, I guess. He and dad met up when they were both tracking the same pack of werewolves in the area and they've stayed in touch. I haven't seen him in probably…fifteen years, sixteen. He's actually the one who taught dad how to deal with werewolves, did you know that?"

Sam frowned. "I figured he just learned everything from Bobby. What is Jameson to you?"

Dean shrugged, flicking his eyes at the review mirror again. "Just an old friend."

"An adult friend from when you were like, seven?"

"Yeah." They met eyes in the mirror. "What's wrong with that?"

Sam considered it. "Nothing, I guess."

Dean looked out the window then, swiping at his nose in passing. Sam watched Dean's reflection in the sideview mirror for a few moments, till he got found out and Dean winked, shot a finger gun at the mirror.

All Sam knew was that he was glad to be making a stop somewhere, at a stranger's house or the truckers' gas station. He'd reached the point where he could smell his own hair if he turned too quickly, which was basically road-tripping 101 - when you can smell yourself, you've been driving for too long.

—

As soon as they hit city limits the situation became all the more real to **Dean**. The highway wove them through the towers of Indianapolis' business district and towards the airport, and all the while Dean could only focus on the road - and even that was difficult. He'd gone without sleep before, oftentimes the job - the tow trucking and otherwise - demanded it, but this was proving to be a different kettle of fish. He hadn't found decent sleep since Saturday morning after he'd brought Sam home from the party, and even then he'd only found it after exhausting himself. That was almost five days ago now. Keeping two steps ahead of these ghosts, worrying about the charm, and now this goddamn storm that was almost chasing them. The scary part was that it was starting to seem that there were far more lanes in the road than there should be - until he would realize his head was beginning to dip, and he'd will his vision back into focus.

If Jameson couldn't help him, Dean wouldn't have to worry about the charm killing them.

They passed the Indianapolis airport and Sam, who'd climbed over the center console and back into the front seat, was once again pointing the way. They veered towards the West Indianapolis exit and off the highway. The midmorning traffic wasn't bad by any means, for which Dean was thankful, but he was only going off of a memory and memory was only promising that Jameson used to live in West Indianapolis, at an old address that could very well be extinct, which was still a fact even years ago. He hadn't answered Dean's calls to clarify. Obviously, this wasn't something Dean mentioned to Sam. What was worse, John hadn't called in hours.

They came to a residential area and dived deeper into it. Dean drove slowly through the blocks, staring closely at each house they passed. They were all too clean looking, and from Dean's memory, Jameson was not. But they finally came to the address and Dean let his hopes grow slightly.

The yard of this grim-looking house wasn't dead and brown, but neither was it the trim grass he saw in the neighbors' lawns. This one had gone to the weeds long ago, a well-worn path of dirt leading from the front door to the pockmarked drive-way - which stood empty. Paired alongside the boarded windows and the porch light that was on even in the day time, Dean's hopes sunk like Battleship. His heart started climbing his throat.

"It, uh, doesn't look like anyone's home." Sam broke his gaze away from the house to give Dean a frown.

Dean hummed nervously, scrambling to undo his seatbelt. "No, this is just Jameson. He's probably inside there somewhere - hunters are just paranoid and all that, you know."

He burst from the car without waiting. Halfway up the walk, walking fast, he called at Sam over his shoulder, "Just gonna see if he's home, hang on."

This close to the door Dean could see a fine layer of dust had settled on the brass mail slot. A closer look, and he noticed a set of nails hammered into the door that would block anyone from opening the slot. Dean swallowed. He raised a shaky fist and knocked on the door.

If ever a house had sounded emptier Dean would have liked to hear it. Behind the door it was clear the rap of his knuckles fell on empty ears, traveling through the dead air as if nobody but the dust motes had heard. Dean could feel his heart pulsing in the back of his throat, could sense Sam's eyes on his back. Dean couldn't look through a window. His hands found each other and began wringing. He knocked again, harder, yet the house stood completely still.

This was Dean's last resort - he wasn't leaving till he found the help he needed. Jameson had to be home. He reached for the handle and gasped when it turned in his hand, but his entrance was stopped by the deadbolt. He pounded the wood of the door for a third round, this time with the side of his fist, shook the door by the handle, even called out Jameson's name, but his fears were being confirmed right before his eyes - there was nobody home. The charm in his pocket weighed a hundred pounds. His head fell against the door, giving one final knock.

He stood there for a moment, wondering what he would tell Sam, coming to terms with the fact that he'd wasted money and time on the only person he knew who could help him, till a dull sound reached his ears, and his eyes flew open. He looked over suddenly, and through a narrow slit in the boarded window Dean saw a pair of eyes. They met for a split second before the stranger's widened and disappeared.

Dean leaped down from the concrete steps and into the weeds under the window, slapped his hand against the wooden slats. "Jameson! I know you're in there! Open up, it's Dean! Winchester!" His palm rattled the wooden slats and the window underneath a few more times. A stinging pain bloomed in his hand, and he hissed, pulling back. A quarter-inch long sliver of wood stuck straight out of the skin of his palm. He had it between his teeth and was pulling it out when the heard the muffled voice coming from the door.

"What?" Dean was back to the door in a second, his ear pressed close to the wood.

A deep voice thick with a southern drawl permeated the door. "Yer Winchester's boy?"

"Yes!" Relief was working its way back into his body, a feeling he'd welcome any day of the week. "Dean Winchester, his son. And I have my brother, Sam. We could use some help."

"Help?" The incredulous voice called. "You watchin' the news, boy? This storm's comin' , you ain't outta town yet - and you need help?"

"You aren't out of town yet either, what's your excuse?"

Dean listened to the silence for a breathless moment, when he began fearing Jameson had left. It was then the door starting rattling hard against his ear. Dean stepped back. He tracked the noise through the door; starting at the top and working its way down, the sound was as if the hunter had laced the door with one of each lock he found at the hardware store. Things slid and slammed, pulled and shook, and after a long moment Dean heard the comparatively smaller release of the deadbolt. A pause in the noise, and the door eased open.

The same pair of eyes under dense brows peered through the crack in the door, nonetheless barred by a thick chain across the gap. Jameson studied Dean's face.

"Well, you don't look like John. More like your momma."

"Yeah," Dean breathed, "So I hear."

Jameson looked passed Dean's shoulder to the car at the curb, then back to Dean. "What help is you boys are needin'?"

Dean sighed - he could cry. "I'm hoping you know anything about this." Dean pulled the purple charm out of his coat, careful not to reveal it so Sam would see. "And we were hoping to clean up a little, if that was fine."

A tense moment passed while Jameson did nothing but stare him down and Dean struggled to inhale. Finally, Jameson blinked, stepping away from the gap and closing the door. Dean held his breath - but after a few more noises behind the door it opened once again, Jameson holding the handle and stepping back. He was a thin man in jeans and a hunting vest with a horseshoe of hair around his head, heavy brows, and a thick goatee. Dean thought he saw the faint scars of an old cleft pallet on his lip when he spoke. "Don't just stand there, boy, get in here."


	24. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

**Sam's **first impression of Jameson's home was the same he usually got in a hunter's home - cluttered. It was the trend that end tables and counters would be filled with papers or hunting supplies, which obviously took up too much space and, for Sam, energy. It was typical that cleaning took the back burner to a hunter's more 'heroic' endeavors, and he could see that just by stepping across the threshold and into the dreary house. Jameson's home was no different. Jameson stood a few paces away, watching closely with his hand behind his back while Dean closed the door behind them. The hunter flicked his eyes over them and down to the floor, then back up.

"Well, you made it in, guess I don't have to shoot you."

Sam looked at the floor, lifting his shoes, thinking he'd stepped in something, but it had been on something - underfoot Sam found the deliberate etchings of symbols into the wooden floor, shapes he didn't understand but still clearly meant something, according to Jameson's trust in it. He wondered if it was similar to Dean's traveling-hotel-doormat-sigil, and if he would ever be done with monsters and their business.

When Sam looked back up Jameson was tucking something into his back pocket. "So let's see this thing, Dean, but I don't know much about - "

"Ah!"

Sam was pulled in front of Dean by the shoulders, his hands digging in hard, rubbing in the muscle. "My little brother was hoping to use the shower while we were here, if that's alright?"

Over his shoulder, Sam tried to look at Dean but could only catch the faintest glimpses of a nervous smile while he clutched Sam's shoulders.

Jameson looked just as confused, but said nothing of it. "I s'pose that'll be just fine. But I'm tryin' to get outta here, alright? No hour-long shower like you kids take."

He walked away and down the dim entryway, gesturing over his shoulder for Sam to follow. Dean slapped him on the shoulder to shoo him on.

Jameson waited at the foot of a stair case leading up. Sam shrank slightly under the bug-eyed stare Jameson seemed to wear perpetually, but he didn't say a word, just turned and led Sam up the stairs.

"Yer a tall fellow, huh?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, holding his duffel in both hands over his chest.

The stairwell was in a natural light coming in through a window in the ceiling. The walls were bare and the stairs creaked as he walked. Never had Sam been in a hunter's home that was decorated with anything different than guns and ropes and tools and spiderwebs in the corners. He'd never seen a framed picture on a bookshelf or pillows on the couch and Jameson wasn't the person to break any molds, it seemed. They crested the stairs and Sam was corralled into a white bathroom with another window in the shower. He wondered if he would have to jump out of this one, too.

"Hot water sticks a bit but it'll work just fine." Jameson flipped the light for Sam, turning the room yellow instead of white. "Towels in the cupboard above the toilet. Yell if you need anything." He gave a two-fingered salute from his reflectively bald head before slipping back through the door, pulling it closed.

Sam stood in the silence of the dingy bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror, feeling as disheveled as Jameson's house itself.

—

"So how is it you fellas came about this?" Jameson held up the charm in calloused fingers to the daylight coming through the gaps in the boarded kitchen window, though it was beginning to grow sparse. The storm clouds had followed them fast from Illinois. The radio was forecasting tornado warnings in the mideast, and though it hadn't actually touched down anywhere yet the winds were already dangerous enough to get out of its way, from what **Dean **was gathering by the boards over all of Jameson's windows. Looking out another window next to the fridge, Dean could see a pick-up truck, the bed loaded with totes, strapped to hold everything in place.

"A witch, uh, she was saying it was - 'cause I wanted our trip to be safe, have good luck, you know? So I took it. She said it was a luck charm."

Jameson flicked his eyes to Dean, considered him, his mustache twitching in a frown. "A witch? Where did you get a witch willing to do business with a hunter?"

Dean shrugged. "Just - the town we're in right now, Lyon. In Mississippi."

"And you trusted 'em?"

"I was…" The entire story wasn't a thing to get into, and neither was he entirely proud of it. "Desperate."

Jameson hummed, turning the charm in his hands a final time, then setting it on the tile countertop. He was wringing the top in an attempt to do what Dean had, of course, already tried. "And I'm guessin' it ain't bringing much of that luck."

"Oh, it's been bringing…something." Dean watched for a minute or so more, hands in his pockets so he wouldn't touch anything. Jameson hitched up his sleeves to work up more elbow grease. He moved from trying to untie the cord to trying to pry the mouth of it open, almost one-for-one to what Dean had tried. "It doesn't open."

Jameson stepped back with a sigh, putting his hands on his hips as his brow furrowed. "I'm seein' that. And what did you say happens when you try tossin' it?"

Dean looked at the charm. Taking it up by the cords, he stepped to the trashcan at the end of the counter, pressing the foot lever and dropping the charm inside. Jameson had crossed his arms over his chest while he watched but now his eyes turned to saucers under his heavy brow. He didn't have to see it happen, or even hope that it would, because he knew. He turned to Jameson, grabbed the lapel of his coat and reached into the pocket, pulling out the charm which bared no sign of just being dumped in the trash.

Dean held it out for him to see. Jameson blinked.

"You have two a these?"

"No. I don't."

Any other day of the week Dean might have laughed at the display, but this was happening to him. A day ago, Dean had been just as shocked as Jameson. Finally the older hunter released his crossed arms and took the charm from Dean's hand. When he touched it, realizing the fabric under his finger tips was real, he gave an appraising whistle.

Dean took a step back and lit a candle of his hope, the one he had set aside for getting rid of the charm. It created the idea that Jameson was going to take it and run, that Dean would be rid of it at his hand. Suddenly, that hand was empty, and Dean's pocket was once again not. Dean snuffed out the candle, another fact confirmed. _So it can't be stolen, either._

Jameson's mouth became a thin line. "You're in a deep one, boy," he said, amazed.

"Sam doesn't know about the charm, and I want it gone before he does. If you can think of anything that can help, I mean - I'll do anything."

"Okay." Jameson chewed on his lip in thought before meeting Dean's eye. "Come with me, boy."

Jameson took up the charm and walked fast out of the kitchen. Just passed the staircase Sam had taken was a hallway, taking them deeper into the dusk. It was the middle of the day but he would never have guessed. It was a trend Dean noticed in a hunter's home, as if the light, hoping it wouldn't get trapped, avoided the windows entirely. Jameson walked a few steps ahead of him and passed one door, stopping before another at the end of the hall, ratting a set of keys from his pocket to find the one he would need.

Dean was beginning to feel nauseated from the near constant shift of emotions. It was one thing to know you made a shitty decision and another altogether getting caught red-handed inside of it. There had already been too many close calls of Sam finding out. Dean knew he would never trust him again if he did. If Jameson couldn't help him be rid of this thing…

Jameson turned around suddenly, staring at Dean bizarrely.

Dean said, "Oh, sorry." He pulled the charm out of his coat and placed it back in Jameson's empty hand.

Here Jameson led them into a room approximately the same size as their Elk City hotel room. Along two of the walls stood ceiling-to-floor bookshelves, packed with the faded spines of books Dean suspected were old even during his granddad's day. He was surprised, considering he didn't see Jameson as much of a reader, but nonetheless Jameson set the purple bag onto a small workstation against a wall and began running his finger along the books, sighing.

"Can't say I know too much about this witch stuff, other than that I don't like 'em. If I remember right, neither did yer daddy."

"Eh," Dean offered. His hands had dug deeper in his pockets somehow now that they were in the strange room. He realized at that moment that he could hear the water running through the pipes in the walls feeding Sam's shower upstairs, and the time remaining on their clock nearly slapped him in the face. He willed Jameson to hurry. "I didn't really ask his permission."

"That why you're coming to me instead a him?" Jameson looked over his shoulder, finger held in place on a green spine as thick as Dean's head.

Dean shrugged. Jameson went back to scanning the shelf. "That's a shame, you probably wouldn't be in this mess. Although it has been a lot a years since I seen you two last. What's yer daddy up to these days?"

"Oh, you know, just…hunting, running around. Still trying to find the thing that killed our mom."

"Ah, the yellow-eyed demon," Jameson recited from his memory. If anyone ever had the pleasure of running across their dad, those would be the words they remember before they ever recalled his name. The Yellow-Eyed Demon, the Thing that ruined John Winchester's life, and theirs, by proxy. "The man has stamina, I'll hand him that."

Above the workstation Dean studied an old-looking map of the country that was nailed to the wall at the corners. None of the lines and highways stood out to him above the others, didn't seem as though Jameson was tracking anything, although, when he leaned in closure, there were transparent thumbtacks poked in a U-shaped line, starting, coincidentally, from Mississippi and ending just inside of Indiana.

"Hey, Jameson, why was this room locked?"

He turned and saw the vested man pulling a book off of the shelf and flipping to a page in the front. "Cause I was getting ready to get outta here, boy. This storm that's comin' is pretty dangerous, Indianapolis is getting called for tornado warnings, but I know better than tornadoes."

Dean frowned. "And you locked a room inside your house?"

"You see all these old ass books, boy? They're worth more than all the houses in this town. Don't need some burglars gettin' in here while I'm gone."

"That explains the hardware stuck to your front door, then. I didn't hear anything about an evacuation on the radio."

"Well, it just hasn't happened yet, is all. I have a buddy in the department of emergencies, says its coming real soon. Besides - " He grabbed a chunk of the book's pages and turned them, then a few more till he found his place. "I've been getting calls from some pals from all over the country, warning me to get out of town. They're sayin' this ain't any regular tornado, like the big brains are callin' it."

"What are they saying, exactly?"

"What I'm hearin' is this storm's got a kind of energy about it, some sayin' demonic, some paranormal, but everyone's agreein' that it isn't regular. Wherever the storm passes through - " he stops and points at the push-pinned map. "These places are explodin' with ghost activity, there one day and gone the next, tearin' the towns apart. I know a gal in New Mexico who called me this mornin', said her high school boyfriend showed up in her kitchen after twenty years a being deader than roadkill - and he was buried back in Arkansas."

"Jesus…"

"Not that kind a language in here, son."

Dean looked at Jameson skeptically. "Sorry, sir." Dean looked back to the map, staring at the push-pins which now meant something different. Despite this defective charm he'd brought along for the ride, he supposed there had been some guardian angel keeping this storm off them after all. "Guess it's double important we get this charm taken care of."

Jameson rolled his lips and nodded, raising his brows, like Dean didn't just state the obvious.

"So I noticed this symbol in the braids of the cord, thought it looked familiar. This is a book on Futhark."

Dean raised a brow. "On what?"

"Futhark. It's Germanic."

"I thought you said you didn't know much about witchcraft."

"Futhark's not witch stuff, it's a language, boy. Just cause your daddy's never read a book in his life doesn't mean you get a free pass, too." Jameson set the large tome on the workstation in front of Dean and pointed a blunt finger at an image on the dark page. It didn't mean anything to Dean, only an interesting square shape with each side extending passed the corner. He supposed it could resemble the pattern on the cord tying the charm closed, though he'd passed them off as a simple pattern.

"And what's it do?"

"Apparently it's can be used as a ward." Jameson passed his finger under lines of text as he paraphrased. Dean tried to keep up, but he was fast. "Says only the caster can untie it or give anyone else permission to untie it."

Dean sighed as he stared at the boxy symbol. "So I can't take out my hair."

"Yer hair? Boy, do you _want_ to get cursed?"

"She said I had to for the luck, I don't know how witchcraft works!"

Jameson's bare scalp wrinkled as he rubbed his forehead, sighing. "I recon this is more of a bad luck charm, son. Chances are she's got a hair of her own in here, too, to keep her juju strong on it."

Dean's shoulders sagged. He let his elbows rest on the workstation, his head in his hands and his coat bunching on his shoulders. "So it sounds like I'm fucked."

"Language."

"Screwed." Dean looked up. "Right?"

With a hand shoved in his butt pocket, Jameson pulled out a thick piece of metal, a boxcutter that caught the sun when he opened it. He picked up the charm and brought it to his face. As soon as the sharp point of the blade touched the fabric Dean felt the swell grow in his pocket.

Jameson blinked. "S'pose I should've guessed. Here."

Dean accepted the box cutter and pulled the charm out. "Try cutting one a the symbols on the cord. Don't think about getting rid of it, just…" Jameson waggled his hand as he frowned, the surgery scars on his lip peeking out from under his mustache.

Holding the box cutter tightly, Dean took a deep breath and let it go, clearing his mind. He brought the charm to his face and sure enough, it was the same pattern Jameson had shown in the book. He pressed the tip of the blade into the cord, focusing as hard as he could on one idea - not cutting the charm to pieces, but the simple curiosity of any kid who finds a box cutter and just so happens to have something worth cutting.

He pulled the blade across the cord. The first pass passed cleanly yet underneath the blade not a single one of the fibers were cut. Dean gasped, pulled his face back. The charm was still in his hand, at least. Jameson watched like a hawk from three feet away. In his ears, Dean could still hear the rush of hot water heading upstairs, or maybe that was the blood in his ears. He put the tip of the blade back to the cord. This time he just needed to press harder.

But that proved to work against him, in the end. Under the new pressure it seemed the charm became savvy to their intentions, suddenly disappearing from Dean's hand and back in his pocket, this time the pocket on the opposite side of his coat. He sighed, razor blade still poised in the air.

He cut his eyes too Jameson. "I don't think this is 'Futhark'."

"Well I don't know, boy, I told you I don't know this stuff. I've never even read this book."

Dean closed the box cutter, letting his arms fall. Jameson hummed pensively, a finger tapping his chin while he took the tool back from Dean.

"You can't do it, I can't do it. This thing knows when I'm trying to get into it." He looked at Jameson. "Got any ideas?"

"Normally a guy'd burn somethin' like this. It's only a sack of stuff, ain't it? Destroy the stuff and the magic can't work."

"But how do we destroy it if it runs away all the time?"

"Well." Jameson put a hand on his belt, taking the charm from Dean. He contemplated it, said, "You said yourself that you tricked it once before, into staying away, yeah? While you were drivin'? Sounds like we just have to trick it again."

—

In the forested back yard, passed the pick-up truck and on another worn path through the weeds, rested a squat-looking shed nearly gone to splinters. The paint outside had once been blue, as had the windows once been clean, as had the door once rested on both hinges, but that was before **Dean's **time, and before Jameson's, too. He led Dean through the door and pulled a chain light hanging from the center of the ceiling. The inside was in much the same state as the outside, the room no larger than the average kitchen. Dean saw the spider webs clinging to the corners and the faint splatters of black mold on the inside of the walls, and felt his insanity levels increase. Could have been his blood pressure, though. Dusty filing cabinets sat among dusty, crumbling cardboard boxes next to an empty workbench, acting as cover for some clutter underneath Dean couldn't make out the shape. It was there that Jameson crouched, stuck in his head, and started digging around with sounds of clashing metal and sliding boxes.

"So, uh…" Dean trailed, looking around at the cracked wood. "What's your idea?"

"I'm thinkin' we might have to put it in somethin', and there's an old coffee tin in here somewhere if I remember right." He grunted as he stood, a rusting aluminum tin in one hand, a plastic milk crate in the other. He flipped the crate upside down in the air and sat the can right on top. Dean could only stand around, dumb and anxious, while Jameson did all the work. There was an old window in the wall above the table, which Jameson pushed against all of his strength it seemed like. It finally slid open with a small plume of dust. Dean could feel the new drag of air blowing through.

"You know how me and your daddy met?"

"I – no, just that you were hunting the same werewolves, and you teamed up." Dean watched after Jameson as he rummaged around under the table once more. He came back with a dirty rag over one shoulder and long tool probably not meant for poking, but was used for poking nonetheless. Jameson took up the aluminum tin once more and stabbed the tool through its walls, three along the bottom rim.

He laughed. "Well that's half right, anyway. You see, when your daddy moved here, you and that brother a yours weren't any taller than my belt." He tossed the tool back behind him and walked out the door once more. The old man went to the bed of his packed truck and reached in while standing on his toes, pulling out a red gas can, swiping a handful of gravel off the ground on the way back. He carried it inside the dim shed and dropped the rocks inside the tin, a clamorous sound in the small room.

"I was trying to track down what was killing my goats, out where I lived, near Fickle?" He threw a thumb over his shoulder like Dean could tell any difference, the other hand holding onto the dirty rag from his shoulder. He began cutting and ripping it into strips as he talked, the screechy tearing noise a little unnerving as his box cutter started the job and he finished it. "Knew it was werewolves – " _Tear_. "Their poor throats eaten out to kill 'em, then ate their hearts." _Tear_. "Only happened on the few nights around a full moon. Anyway, your daddy, see, he was just cuttin' his teeth on all this monster business, he didn't know the…etiquette, you can say." Jameson squinted his eyes and gave a curt grin, in a way that said 'fake polite' to Dean. _Tear_. "How to act around other hunters and the things they were huntin'."

He tossed his collection of rags into the tin. Dean watched them fall like dead leaves. His mouth was going dry.

"I caught him on my property a few times and shooed him away, mind you, so he isn't blameless here. Chased him off but he was like a flu – sometimes they catch." He jerked the cap off the gas can and Dean jumped despite himself. "Where's that bag at, son?"

Dean blinked, then caught up with reality, passing it over quickly. Jameson held up his hand, shaking his head and gesturing to the can with a nod. Dean pinched the fabric and set it in the tin himself, gently, so not to freak out the magic.

_I'm pandering to a goddamn charm._

Stepping back and tipping the can till gas began pouring into the tin, Jameson went on. "He came around so much he eventually got to thinkin' I was a werewolf, too, that I'd killed the farmer myself or somethin', for how long the problem went on. Woke up one night to all this noise, all these goats just a bleatin' from the pasture. So I run out in nothing but my socks, naked as the day I was born, shotgun in my arms like a baby. Wasn't payin' attention to the moon. If I had, I would have known something was out of the ord'nary."

Jameson capped the gas can and stepped around Dean, setting it outside the door. Dean watched him from the corners of his eyes all the while. He was afraid, for some reason, to be caught moving.

From his breast pocket Jameson took a small rattling box of matches, pulled one out while leaning one leg up on the milk crate, a hick Captain Morgan. He rested an elbow on his knee, looking up at Dean, who suddenly felt like a deer in oncoming traffic.

"And so I get to the field 'n realize all the noise was coming out a their little lean-to barn I had set up during the spring. Just all these awful sounds. I walk in knowin' I finally caught one a them monsters, only to get knocked out by a shovel to the back of my head." Jameson turned and pointed to a faded, silvery-colored scar at the crown of his head. "Next thing I know your daddy got me tied up to a support beam thinkin' he just saved the town 'cause he got me naked and knocked out. Had to set him straight a little after that, you know? Teach him how to leave someone else's hunt alone."

Jameson stood up straight and flicked the match head against the side of the matchbox. The sulfur spat and hissed away in a flash of light that settled down into a steady flame, held over the mouth of the bucket in his fingers, but Dean was transfixed on Jameson's hard eyes.

"I always told your daddy I'd get him back some day."

Jameson let go of the match. It tumbled down, down, down, falling for what felt like miles, but it wasn't even a second later that Jameson rushed at Dean, his fist coming up fast towards his stomach.

If Dean hadn't been so taken in by the man's story, hyper-aware from the absurdity, he might've suffered the hit, but he'd been ready. He jumped back at just the right moment, stumbling backwards out the door and into the weeds. He wasn't sure how he hadn't seen it all the times before, but as Jameson followed, readying another hit, Dean saw again the glint of the faint scar his dad had given him. The like-father-like-son sentiment was not lost on him in that moment.

The dust kicked up by their boots carried on the growing wind like the early morning fog Dean had seen in the graveyard. If Jameson came in from the right, Dean went left - but there was always something waiting there. In the few moment that passed Dean could tell he was up against an experienced fighter, and all the more to worry about knowing Jameson was out to get some long-awaited revenge. Dean tracked his punch, dodged, and threw one his own, caught Jameson in the shoulder, the old man staggering to the side.

He gained his footing and let out a laugh, standing straight, a wicked gleam in his eye. The faint hiss of released metal rang out on the air. From behind his back Jameson revealed a long knife. Dean's entire upper half shook while his lower half tensed.

When Jameson lunged forward, swiping the air in front of Dean's coat, Dean's mind went haywire. Turning his back meant making himself vulnerable; using his hands meant they cut be cut off; and trying to find something to use as a weapon would be impossible in the weeds. Jameson shot his free hand out in a try to grab Dean's lapel, but in his panic, Dean became slippery - it was Jameson who got grabbed instead, a fat handful of his vest in Dean's fist, pulled up and over his bald head. He stumbled backwards in a way that reminded Dean, funnily enough, like a crab.

He took the chance and reached for the knife while Jameson was trapped in his vest, knocking a solid punch against his hand and sending the knife into the air. The sun ran along the edge, lighting it on fire, before it fell into the weeds, lost forever. Dean planted a solid foot behind him and kicked out with the other. His boot landed solidly in Jameson's chest. The old man was in the air for an entire minute, it seemed, arms half stuck in his hunting vest, a hard grunt escaping his throat, and finally met the ground in a last cloud of dirt and rocks in the middle of the yard.

Dean stared down at Jameson's huddled form as he writhed in the weeds. No doubt Dean's boot had knocked the air out of him - that didn't mean Dean was letting his guard down. Jameson gasped for breath. Dean's fists were tight, his lungs burned with adrenaline, and his heart alone was a Def Leopard album. Slowly, Jameson was making his way back up and Dean dropped lower into position, but there were no other attacks and by the time Jameson was back on his feet, though swaying like he was on water, he was adjusting his vest and wiping a bead of dirty sweat off his forehead.

"You're fast, kid," Jameson said, breathless.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Dean followed each and every movement Jameson was making, down the last twitch of his eyebrow.

"You know, I won't even yell at you for that one." He put a hand against his rib with a grimace, turned around and motioned for Dean to follow. "Come with me, boy, we'll see if it worked."

Jameson hobbled back to the shed, a new slight limp in his gait, but Dean didn't move. If he left now he could probably reach Sam in the bathroom before Jameson could do much about it, given he was a little beat up now. Get Sam, get out, get in the car. Forget the charm - he would find some other way to handle it. Maybe call Bobby after all, though that was a kind of last resort -

"Are you comin' Winchester or are you gonna keep the crows away?" Jameson was halfway through the door. He didn't wait to see if Dean followed this time or not.

He did, however, along the way, find a rusted pipe laying against the shed, taking it up before walking in. Just in case.

Dean saw Jameson's dusty back as he poured something out of a bag and into the dingy tin, much blacker now than he remembered it being last time. Smoke lines wafted their way towards the ceiling to get caught in the cool cross breeze, and taken out the open window. Coming closer, Dean could see he was pouring sand.

"I asked what the fuck that was, Jameson." He clutched the pipe. His hands were still shaking, but Jameson didn't have to know that.

"Now I'm only givin' you one, boy, and you used it. Language." He stopped his pouring and swung the bag away behind him unconcerned. There was Dean's reason for the state of the shed. "Take this rag, and tip out the tin. Tell me what you see. But not in here, I don't need something lighting the wood on fire."

Dean looked over and realized Jameson was holding out another stained rag. He stared at Jameson skeptically. He sighed and shook the rag. Dean took it, but didn't break eye contact.

The tin was hot so the rag made sense and even as Dean carried it the short way out through the door, his hands were already more warm than was comfortable. He let it fall from his grip and into the rocks outside. Tipping over, there was a lot of sand, some blackened stones, and a good amount of ashes.

But no charm. Not a scrap of spare purple fabric.

Dean's breath caught in his throat.

"I was only pullin' your leg, son, your daddy never tied me up." Jameson came up from behind and squatted next to Dean with the same tool he'd used to stab the tin, swishing it around the sand and ashes, churning it over to reveal what could have been buried. What had been the supposed good luck charm wasn't anything more than black and white flakes. "I tied him up, for breaking into my barn, fed his clothes to my pigs. Just needed to distract you."

"What's going on?"

The sudden deep voice from behind caught Dean by surprise, who jumped, turning to face it. Sam stood frowning in the worn dirt path with his wet hair pulled back in a hair tie, holding a grocery bag packed with his bathroom things and old clothes. Dean couldn't answer, in part because it would spill the beans about the charm and this witch business, and in part because he plainly didn't have any words.

Jameson stood and brushed more dead leaves and dirt off his jeans. "Your brother was just helpin' me with my ash tray so I don't burn the shed down, before I have to take off. Which I should have done around an hour ago, so I'll have to say so long." His tone was polite but Dean could hear the warning in the tone. His heart was still beating in the strange mix of adrenaline and euphoria, but he could be excited some other time, because he agreed – it was time to go. The gust of wind picked up then, catching Dean's coat, blowing Sam's hair, reminding them of its proximity.

Dean stood and confirmed nervously, eventually getting through the words. Sam considered him, looked at Jameson, then down to the pile of ashes and sand on the ground between them.

"Is the storm really that bad?" Sam asked. He faced the wind, contemplating the clouds on the horizon. It was such a stark purple against the sky blue that Dean thought it looked like a bruise. "Just some bad wind, right?"

"Don't you got radio in your car?" Jameson asked.

"Ye-yeah?" Sam's eyes narrowed, flicking to Dean and back.

"That thing's tearing road signs right out a the ground in Illinois. Just at the Kansas-Illinois border, they're sayin' the winds picked up an extra twenty-miles-an-hour in the stretch a ten minutes alone."

Dean blinked in surprise. "How long ago was that?"

Jameson shifted his weight to one hip, putting his thumbs through his belt loops. He thought for a moment. "I think it was just this morning actually, not long before you two showed up."

Dean frowned. They were just there a few hours ago, while he stared at the distant clouds from his mom's gravesite. Who'd have thought this thing was so close?

"So, yeah, it's bad, kid. Everyone's tellin' me to head north, that a storm like this will most likely go south."

"South?" Sam asked. "What would make a storm go south?"

"Well, see, we're thinkin' storms like these are gonna look for high concentrations of spiritual energy. And the south is flat rife with that."

Sam paused, staring at Jameson. He crossed his arms over his chest. By the stern look on his brother's brow Dean was beginning to grow anxious, started running his fingers together in nerves. This wasn't where he wanted to get into a confrontation. "Storms like these?"

Jameson nodded. "Ghost storms."

Dean clenched his eyes. _Now you said it._

"Ghost storms," Sam repeated.

"Anyway," Dean cut in, getting a hand on his brother's. "Let's go. Thank him for the shower, Sammy."

But Sam ignored him. Jameson went on, "I've never seen one myself but a few people I know have. They say this one's big. Somethin's got them all riled up."

Dean sighed. Sam said, "Ghost storms. And what exactly is a ghost storm?"

"They look just like tornadoes, which is why the normies don't know nothin' about what they're seein'. It's when dozens or hundreds, maybe even thousands of ghosts become agitated and all start swirlin' around each other." He started spinning his hands in a circle, just in the case that his imagery was lost on them. "Then it starts turnin' into a vortex, suckin' more in. I'm told it'll lose steam eventually, but it has to tire itself out first."

Sam's eyes had turned into squints, so focused he was that Dean couldn't see the color in them any longer. The concentrated wrinkles in his forehead were deep, like speed bumps.

"Ghost storms," Sam repeated. "Why do hunters always have make something out of nothing? If they're saying it's tornadoes, it's probably just tornadoes."

Dean's heart faltered. He knew it was coming but it was still a tiring thing to hear. Jameson raised an annoyed eyebrow, asking, "Are you not goin' to run from a tornado either, then, boy?"

"I'm ready when you are, Dean," Sam said, already turning towards the house once again.

Dean headed to follow, wiping his hands on the dirty towel and putting it in Jameson's direction - till he remembered himself. He stepped close to Jameson, who had a frown hidden in his goatee.

"You really saved me, Jameson, I owe you. Anything you want. Just, no knives next time."

Jameson waved that away with his rag, nodding his head towards the house. "We'll just add it to the favors your daddy owes me. Go on outta here. Get your brother."

Sam called his name from halfway through the door. Dean turned, trotting away. Partway through the kitchen he caught up and grabbed Sam by the shirt, pulled him close, and hissed a whisper in his ear.

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back out the door. "Thank you for the shower, Jameson."


	25. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

"I've never seen you act so rude in my life."

They both shut themselves in the car at the same time, **Sam** pausing to stare while Dean fiddled with his seat belt.

"What do you mean?"

Dean clicked himself in. "What do I mean, Sam? The guy let you use his shower and you basically called him an idiot."

For a split second Sam was distracted by the sheen of Dean's skin. He'd noticed Jameson was dirty, but so was his house. Now he saw some dirt that had found its way onto Dean's elbows, the oil on his face forcing the shadows under his eyes to stand out. Dean's words pulled him out of that, though.

Sam said, "I did not call him an idiot."

"You did."

"I did _not_."

Dean leaned in, repeating the words like a question. "'_Why do hunters always make something out of nothing?_' You were in his home, Sam, that's disrespectful. I mean, I get you think hunting is bullshit and all that, but they don't go around making shit up."

"They do, Dean. Sometimes the door opens on its own because it has a loose hinge." Sam muttered to himself while he latched his own belt. "Not everything is a ghost or a vampire. Storms happen all the time. _Ghost storm_ \- give me a break."

Dean yawned suddenly, bringing his elbow to cover his face yet Sam could see how tightly his eyes were pinched, and it was almost like the color of his skin changed halfway through. Dean pulled back from the yawn and his eyes fluttered, staying closed just a second too long at the end. His hands landed on the steering wheel as if merely to center himself.

"You alright?" Sam asked quietly. "Why didn't you shower after me?"

Dean pulled his eyes open, the irises rolling about for a moment, blinked a few more times. He brought a palm to his eyes and rubbed, one hand still on the wheel, seemingly for support. The focus came back to his features, solidifying what had gone sloppy.

"There wouldn't have been time. Jameson was in a hurry to leave. I just got really tired all of a sudden is all." Dean chuckled like it wasn't a thing to worry about. "We're good, though, we ought to get going if this storm's on the way. Jameson said he was going north, sounded like as good a plan as any."

"He also said the storm was looking for _energy_. I don't think that's really the type of warning we have to heed." Sam took in Dean's features one more time. "But if you're okay to drive…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Let's get where we're going and call it another day. I vote for Michigan."

"I can't believe you think this storm is really going south."

"Well, then, Mr. Smarty, you pulled a coin on me, I'll pull one on you back." Dean leaned against his belt and dug a hand into his butt pocket, pulling out a glittering quarter. "Heads, I win, and we go north; tails, you lose, and I get to leave you on the side of the road for being a bitch."

Sam closed his eyes and sighed to himself. Dean flicked the coin just as Sam had in Amarillo, clinking against the ceiling and landing back in Dean's hand. He looked. "Heads," Dean said with a smile. "Hope you brought gloves. I hear Michigan gets cold."

Sam stretched an arm to back seat to stash his bag then began work on unfolding their map, taking up the same old pen and working his way from one point to the other. It always felt like a puzzle, which was fun, for all he usually complained about map duty.

"So you really aren't going to try and talk me into going back to Lyon?" He'd said the words jokingly, though that wasn't how he felt, watching Dean from the tops of his eyes. Ever since calling John, he'd been growing steadily more afraid that he would have to defend himself against his brother, that he'd eventually have to resign to the idea of being a nomad, all on his own, while Dean went back to John and Lyon faithfully, with his tail between his legs. It hadn't happened yet, but…that didn't mean it wouldn't.

"I'm not gonna make you do anything you don't want to. When - _if_ \- you decide you're ready then we'll do it, but for now I'm content in rolling around the country with my favorite person." He flashed a grin at Sam and made as if to ruffle his hair, settled instead for a few pats since it was pulled back. A shorter piece at the front of his hairline had come free as it dried, hanging out from his head, bouncing whenever he moved.

Dean reached up instead to bobble the strand of hair with a fingertip, saying, "You look like an anime character."

Sam jerked his head away, wide eyed. "How do you know about anime?"

Brows furrowing, Dean said, "Why wouldn't I?"

They stared at each other for a moment. Sam settled back into his seat, giving Dean the side-eye. "As long as you're fine to drive."

Dean fished around in his box of tapes, coming up with, hopefully, one he hadn't played yet. Swapping an old tape for this new one, Dean pressed play and filled the car with sound, put the car in Drive, then pulled away from Jameson's abandoned-looking house.

But Dean wasn't fine, and in fact, he hadn't lasted any longer than the block. They came to rest at a stop sign, Sam double and triple checking their route till he realized that they hadn't moved in nearly a minute. When he looked up, Dean's head was hanging out on his neck like a flag on a pole, his eyes closed. Sam could see them moving wildly under his lids. Even as he watched, Dean's head was falling like slow melting ice cream.

It took a moment but Dean came to, surprised like he'd been slapped. A spectator would see a very unsteady man hobbling away from the driver's door then climb into the back seat, and a tall one in a ponytail take up the wheel after him, pulling the car out and back onto the road.

—

_I'm not gonna make you do anything you don't want to._

As the time went by these were the words in **Sam's** head. Never before had he been the master behind the wheel during a road trip, always a passenger, and least of all had he been the only one awake in a car. It meant the time was his, just to think. He liked how powerful it felt to be the conductor, hurdling forward at eighty-miles-an-hour, where one touch of the wheel would put them in an entirely different lane, town, state, country – he could go anywhere. Every so often he would glance back to see if Dean was still asleep, and each time he was, though Sam couldn't say what reason Dean had for being so tired. He thought he could drive for a hundred years on the thrill of it alone as his fuel.

It wasn't necessarily a question to Sam anymore – he knew he could trust Dean, knew that he would never be forced into anything. He'd been his comfort over Claudia, then again about school, and more so involving John, the year of distance between them dissolving like rotted drywall the moment they touched it. This had been what he was waiting for, he realized. The gap in his being, _this_ was his deficiency, and he knew it the way someone knew they needed water. He'd tried to plug the divide with hopes of college and getting out of Lyon, and even with his relationship with Claudia, but there was a reason those things hadn't worked out, he thought. Because they weren't what he was missing. Which all felt good to discover, now that he'd burned those bridges.

Sam's thoughts kept traveling back to earlier in Jameson's bathroom, pulling Dean's stolen phone out of his pocket and dialing the school with nervous fingers while he sat on the closed toilet lid. It had been too long, he needed to know for sure, and if he could just get in touch with Ms. Gonzalez he could finally rest and cut off this dead weight. As soon as he'd heard Jameson start talking with Dean below him, he'd put the phone to his ear, waited. His friends would be an hour or so into their Wednesday morning classes at that point, and Sam thought it an interesting notion, that people's lives went on even when you weren't there to see them. He'd learned that with Dean as they'd caught up on their spent year and felt it again as he'd called the main office of his high school. The TA answered the phone in the same sing-song voice he remembered hearing whenever visiting the office.

He remembered the anticipation in his voice as he'd asked after Ms. Gonzalez, the jitteriness in his legs when he was put on hold, and when it all collided, when the TA came back to the line and shared that Ms. Gonzalez had been missing from her office all week, but would call back as soon as she returned. And no, there were no letters in her box from Stanford. And he remembered his second phone call, though in hindsight he wasn't totally sure he wanted to.

Claudia's number came from his fingers on instinct and instinct alone - if he had given himself even an extra second for thought he would have talked some sense into himself. But in the moment he didn't want to talk himself out of it. He'd just checked off one of his boxes back home. Might as well ride the wave of productivity, he'd reasoned. He put the phone to his ear and listened to the ring, a thin noise as if he was hearing every mile that the call had between them.

The ringing clicked in his ear, disappearing. A man's voice said, "Hello?" Sam's teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek. And he was pretty sure he lost his ability to see color for a moment. Because he recognized the voice - the impossibly infuriating voice - and whether the sudden pulse of pain across his scabbed eyebrow had been that recognition or his heart fighting for air, it didn't change that Jackson was answering calls on Claudia's phone.

His nose burned suddenly while his eyes started misting over. Sam rolled down the driver's window despite the air conditioning, tearing off his bandage with a wince and throwing it away, letting the wind clear his face and his eyes. His hand had gone white around the wheel, and without noticing, he'd sped up to ninety-miles-an-hour. A deep breath did little to cool his head but he eased off of the gas. _That is just fine_, he thought. Now that he didn't need college to get out of Lyon, he could do anything, and he could do so without worrying if Claudia…

Anyway. Not to mention that John hadn't called all morning either, he'd noticed.

He had been looking forward to California, had allowed himself to feel excited for the change and the steps forward, imagined his time in college doing the things he'd seen in movies. Bowling with friends, coffee shops, New Years Eve parties, climbing campus roofs to get drunk - even though he didn't drink. But…this was fine. He supposed he could do all those things, still. Once he and Dean settled down somewhere, Sam could find out about getting his GED, land a job and do some night classes after that. Didn't need Stanford - Dean told him that, and he supposed he agreed. He wondered what Dean would do, with their newfound unlimited reserve of time.

_This is fine_, he told himself again, shaking his head awake and to the present. He'd find it somewhere, would learn was 'it' was, too, he knew.

Another glance in the back and Dean was sleeping through the wind blowing into the cab. Sam didn't have to go back to Lyon, and he never had to hunt again. Jameson would be the last, he decided, the final page in his story where he would ever have to deal with hunters and their woes. _Ghost storm_. Sam shook his head again, scoffed. And Dean wanted to go north, like that made any sense. Everyone on the radio was so concerned with tornado warnings and projections, and it had yet to even touch the ground. It could dispel at any moment, then they would have gone north for nothing but a deranged old man's ramblings.

Earlier he'd traced the pen across the map till he stopped at a place called Kalamazoo, Michigan, because, Sam predicted, of its silly name, but this car was under his control now, and the only one there to stop him was asleep in the back seat. Sam banished his spinning thoughts to the back of his mind while he looked at the map, deciding Knoxville had some Civil War monuments he'd always wanted to stop and see, instead. It might have been south, but it at least wasn't north, and it definitely wasn't Mississippi, and that was that.

He passed through Seymour and Scottsburg, crossing state lines and stopping in Louisville at an off-the-highway station for gas a few miles after the light came on the dashboard. Leaning against the side of the car while he pumped, he watched Dean sleep through the window, his arm pinched under his head, his wrist and fingers hanging limp over his face. Sam used his own money again so he wouldn't have to wake him. In the distance the sky was split in two, the clean half of bright blue sky, and the dark grays and purples leaching across the atmosphere. Sam smirked to himself, silently sticking it to Jameson and his south-bound ghost storm. Inside the gas station he decided to splurge in celebration of the occasion - a cup of coffee for himself and one for Dean, in the case he woke up any time soon. He picked up a $.25 Kentucky postcard as well, just for posterity.

From Louisville he followed the highway south-east. The land transformed from the concrete and asphalt of the city to the rolling lush hills he was familiar with in this part of the world. He sang to himself and thought to himself. After a while he passed exits for a town called Simpsonville, and a short jaunt later for its neighbor Shelbyville, which made his mouth spread open in a smile, turning to share with Dean - till he realized the seat was empty, remembered Dean was asleep. His smile faltered, but that was fine, too. He'd remember it for when Dean woke up.

It was harder, he realized, to make the touristy stops he'd had so much fun doing when he was the one driving, without someone pointing the way and watching the map. He could be passing the world's greatest things and never know it, missing the opportunities, though he tried not to let that bother him - instead he kept his eyes peeled as best as he could, taking in each township and city, its atmosphere and its buildings, trying his best to commit them to memory while passing at seventy miles-an-hour. Each one of these places was a potential settling ground. When they were done driving and seeing the sites, they could call it quits in any of them. Dig themselves a well, so to speak.

So far none of their stops had felt right. The big cities were bustling with opportunity and the small towns had their silent charms, but he hadn't felt that tug yet like he was being pulled home. The rope tying him to the earth, the rope that he knew would finally release him if he could just find where the other end was tied. But this was boring work to do on his own. He passed the large city of Richmond, crossed over the Kentucky River a time later. It felt like he was a new parent - each time something new came to mind he wanted to prod Dean awake just to have someone he could tell it to.

He was wondering, though, if this great expanse of everything was really a great hole of nothing. If the land of opportunity had an opportunity for him, too. If he wanted to take it in the first place.

_I'm not gonna make you do anything you don't want to._

He clenched the steering wheel again, his heart skipping a beat.

_Where am I going?_

—

**Sam** couldn't have predicted the traffic he'd find at Fort Dickerson Park on a Wednesday afternoon, but he was thankful that it ended up being so thin. There was almost no one. Finding a parking spot had been the easiest part of the day, though that wasn't saying much.

He killed the engine, cutting off radio with it. He'd had a hard time finding a station that wasn't reporting on the storm in one way or another, settling on a Christian rock station at a low volume, just for the company. Closing the door behind him, he stuffed Dean's phone and their map in his pocket, pointing the key into the lock as Dean, still asleep in the backseat, caught his attention, giving him pause. He hadn't moved much during the drive, and not for the first time Sam had to wonder why he was so tired. What would happen if he woke him up? But he decided against it as he engaged the lock. On fast feet he walked into the park. This time alone, he wasn't ready to give that up yet, if only just to air out a little on his own.

The civil war park was more so a short trail through the trees, his shoes snapping twigs and leaves blown in on the wind. Every so often he would come to a wooden sign explaining the plot of land or the things that had happened on it, but he was having a hard time reading them. For good measure he took photos of the model canons and the small bronze plaques set in the soil, yet his thoughts were moving around slowly, overtaken by others like they'd been jumped in an alleyway. By the time he made it out from the tree cover and the rock path turned sandy under his shoes, he realized he'd been walking for thirty minutes and couldn't recall any of it.

_Where am I going?_

_This is fine._

_I'm not gonna make you do anything you don't want to._

In front of him stretched an impossibly blue lake, nestled in among the dark surrounding tree line. It felt abandoned, or deserted, in a way that Sam believed he was the first person to ever see it. Somehow the wind wasn't blowing here. The glassed surface was perfectly still.

There was only one pair of footsteps along the water's edge and those were his; nobody sat on the lake's shore as he passed, but it wasn't eery, it was like the night - time wasn't moving here. The air was solid as the water, no forwards or backwards, immovable. How had he been so lucky. If he sat and stayed still, he believed he would live forever.

So he did, finding a bench around the halfway mark of the lake, which stood out to Sam mainly for its oddity as the only bench he'd come across the entire trail. He sat down nonetheless. As the air had gone quiet so had his mind, and as he breathed his heart began following suit, watching the sky and the trees reflected in the unbroken water.

_Where am I going?_

The absent thought buzzed in his brain, the first to resurface in the newfound peace. In the times when the music was quiet, when they'd turned off the lights and said good night, down to Dean leaving the table for the restroom during lunch breaks, Sam knew, hidden in the unsafe corners of his mind, what this fear was, though not by name. Just their colors, how they felt and what they beget - the knowledge that he needed to keep moving that lived as a burn under his skin. To start the search anew, but for what, he hadn't found. Was he supposed to keep looking till it killed him? Till it hollowed him out, like an old tree, till he fell?

He knew he'd been there for some time but was too afraid to open Dean's phone to find the time. The sun had moved and with it the shadows of the trees, but what stood out above them both was the new darkness encroaching on the light. A rush of distant noise suddenly cracked the egg of his silence, shaking the earth as it grew, like a giant was waking up.

Sam huffed a laugh. The storm. It had moved south, as if it were following them for nothing but spite.

He worked the folded map out of his pocket, a knot growing in his chest. The paper had been crissed and crossed as many times as their direction changed, as the route halted and picked up again, and it was becoming hard to narrow down the specific points. There were some more monuments in Chattanooga, which sounded good a place as any. Maybe he would find something in among the history in the ground to point him in the right direction. Maybe the storm only _looked_ like it was closer.

Back at the car Dean had somehow rolled himself on his stomach. Sam grimaced at the sight of his twisted hips and his legs, how they bent backwards and hung at the joints, but still he slept and that was fine.

_This is fine._

He was tired of the news, of hearing about the storm. Under the blemished sky Sam searched Dean's box of tapes and found Fleetwood Mac's Dream at the bottom. He passed a mileage marker warning he had 112 miles to go, while the dulcet tones of Stevie Nicks lamented about the things you had, and what you lost. What you had, and what you lost.


	26. October 30th, 2005: 8:45 PM

_October 30th, 2005_

_8:45 PM_

_You're watching Jess fiddle with the top button of her costume, huff in frustration, then skip it altogether. Although, watching is a strong word. It's more like seeing. Observing, but not taking any notes. Mr. Triblow's words had been a looping record in your thoughts the rest of your shift, and now into the evening. An interview, the interview, to get into the Stanford law program that you've been working towards nearly breathlessly these past three years._

_Jess turns from the mirror to face where you stand in the doorway, done up in her new costume while you're wearing the same jeans you've had on all day. You snap to attention, taking in a breath and putting up a smile. _

_She was ecstatic over your score. Her fervor melted some of the ice that had grown on your nerves, and it was infectious, making these days' familiar feeling of angst a little easier to push down and behind other thoughts. You haven't looked in the shoebox all day so maybe that's helped, too. But now you've just remembered it and you're anxious again._

_Jess offers up her chest seductively, filling out the nurse's costume well, wearing a sly smile on her face. You try to return it but your face feels stretched wrong, reminding how few smiles you've had lately. One relaxed step after another she walks past you, tracing a hand along your shoulder as she goes, then down the hall._

_She calls behind her from the main room. "Get a move on, would you? We were supposed to be there like, fifteen minutes ago!"_

_"Do I have to?"_

_Her chuckle is light, and she looks back like she can't believe she got stuck with you. "Yes, and where's your costume?"_

_"You know how I feel about Halloween," you say. You lean in closely now, face to face. The smile on her face grows bigger, and you pull each other closer in sync, brought into a kiss. Strawberry, but you go on anyway._

_In the end she tugs you along behind her, promising you'll only be going to celebrate your test score. Just to see people, and be seen in her costume._

_A tick in your heart; a feeling in your gut; a specter in the corners of your eyes; beneath the bushes and in the shadows of the doorways. The instinct that which has been attacking you for weeks - that something just doesn't feel righ__t__ \- adds it itself to the list of things you get to think about tonight. Maybe a little liquor will be a good thing. _

_Your hands are cold in Jess' while she pulls you towards the door. _

_"Fine. But I'm not wearing a damn costume," you tell her._


	27. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

**Dean **woke slamming his head into the window, as the sensation of a rocking boat took over his sense of gravity and his heartbeat lit like a firework, sitting up to a fishtailing world. Sam had his hands tight around the wheel at ten and two, the world outside a rollercoaster. The sight was all he needed to enter the waking world completely, and he knew right away what was happening.

In a stern voice, Dean said, "Off the break, Sam, off the break."

Sam's head jerked in surprise but Dean felt the difference, knew he'd listened, as the car gradually smoothed out. The wheel was still a bucking horse under Sam's hands, even as it calmed down. This wasn't Dean's first blow out on the highway but it must have been Sam's, he knew, and could tell by the bug of his eyes, how white his face had become.

Dean was leaned over the console, talking in Sam's ear. "Just let off the pedals, keep the car as straight as you can. Kay, that's good. Now pull off onto the side."

They came to a stop like a slow drip of paint. Dust from the gravel roadside floated in clouds passed them. When the brakes stopped their faint squealing, both passengers bobbing like stiff boards in the wind, Dean let go of his breath, hanging his head next to Sam who looked like he wouldn't let go of the wheel till he died.

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice was thin, and Dean could almost hear his heartbeat in his voice. "I don't know what happened. Everything was fine."

"Probably just…glass in the road, or something. Don't be sorry." Dean wiped his face and felt the cold sheen of sweat drying up in the air conditioning. Before he could say anything more, Sam hit the emergency blinker switch on the dash then fell back in his seat. A car passed the windows. Dean's beating heart was nearly back to normal, and after one more sigh, he patted Sam twice on the shoulder, saying, "Let's take a look."

The sounds of the highway met Dean's ears as soon as he opened the door, and walking around the car he learned why he was woken up like a knocker against a door. It was the rear tire, right under his sleeping head, that had blown, and a breadcrumb trail of rubber leading off behind them. He squatted at the torn tire, smelling the hot air wafting from the underside of the car just like he did in the body shop.

"Well that's fucked."

Sam came to his side, staring down at the mess. "What was it?"

Dean put a hand up in 'who knows', letting it fall to his knee. "Anything. Glass, a nail, a dumb-shaped rock. I checked the pressure in Minneola and it was fine, so it wasn't that." He stood. "Let's get the spare on."

He reached through the driver's door and flipped the switch releasing the trunk, the wind in his coat like a sail. He slowed, stopped. The wind. It was carrying away the caustic smells of the highway and in the cool air he could smell the rain. Boiling clouds, dark the color of tar, consumed the horizon line even as it blotted out the sun above them.

Sam's voice came from far away. "You know, the road's kind of uh…lonely, when you're the only one on it." His voice was higher pitched than normal. "Sorry this is how I had to wake you up."

"Sam, we're not in Michigan, are we?" Dean called over his shoulder, a question only in the phrasing. Jameson was a lunatic but he knew his shit - the storm was supposed to go south. All of the other hunters had agreed.

His reply was coiled with apprehension, Dean thought. "Uh, what's that?"

"Why aren't we in Michigan, Sam?" Dean turned to face him. In the growing overcast gloom the world around them looked washed out. "That looks like a storm to me."

"I, uh…there's the - Kentucky just seemed like a better place. Is all."

"A better place? During a storm that's…headed south?" Dean crossed his arms over his chest. At this point they were shouting over the sounds of the highway from opposite ends of the car, and Dean believed that was just fine.

Sam looked around the area, picking through his words with a blabbering mouth before he said them, trying to land on the one that would sound the best till he finally looked back at Dean. "It's - Jameson doesn't know what he's talking about, Dean."

Dean groaned, rubbing his eyes as a fresh batch of cool air came up behind him. "Oh, Sam."

"It's just a storm," Sam went on, voice high as he came a little closer, "they aren't attracted to energy. Or ghosts or aliens anything!"

"It's a storm, Sam! Regardless of what Jameson said. Did you go deaf somewhere? While you were driving? Just gonna ignore the news?"

"It shouldn't have gone south, Dean, is what I'm saying. Do you get how absurd it is to think a storm would be attracted - "

Dean slapped the trunk of the car, wanting the release of some frustration so the physical would match up with the emotional. His head dipped, letting it hang between his shoulders while he braced himself on the car.

"Sam," he said, "you've put us in very real danger, whether you want to believe it or not." He looked up and leveled his eyes on his brother. Sam's jaw was tight and his mouth was thin, staring back with an unwavering gaze as the wind pulled at the strings of his hoodie.

Dean sighed. "Now help me get this spare on, would you?"

"Dean, I - "

"Spare tire, Sam." They met eyes again. Dean swallowed. "Please. We don't exactly have much time, now."

Opening the trunk, Dean moved the bags to uncover the spare compartment. He passed off the jack and tire iron to Sam who was hanging behind, worried to get too close, Dean supposed. He spun the handle, released the door, and lifted it from the trunk. When he looked back, the blood froze in his veins.

The compartment was empty. A thin layer of dust rested on the plastic, which came out brown on Dean's fingers when he swiped his hand across it. He needed proof that he wasn't seeing things. This car hadn't had a spare tire for a while.

"Dean?" Sam asked from behind.

At the simple mention of his name, the frozen blood flashed into a fire, his head swelling with exasperation. He punched a solid fist against the trunk lining, a fast one-two-three, and he was done. His breath came fast but he forced it to slow.

Sam was closer, then. "Dean."

"There's no spare."

Next to him, Sam put his head in the trunk. "Oh shit."

Dean put his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes again with vigor. After leaving Jameson's his fatigue slammed into him like a speeding train, coming down from the joy of ditching the charm and the adrenaline when he thought the bastard was going to knife him. It had been the best he'd slept in the five days they'd been antagonized. It was to this sleep he wanted back in to, to see if maybe this was another dreamscape and he would wake up with another ghost in his face. He thought that situation might be a little more preferable. "And I don't have…money for a tow."

"So, what happens, then?"

Dean sighed. They would have to make it to a town, however long that would be, or wait on the side of the road for someone to help him, but Dean knew that never worked. People didn't trust people from the road side. They'd be faster walking to a town than it would be waiting for anyone to stop and help them, and would probably get sucked up in the storm anyway, dropped right in Oz. Insurance might not help him considering the car registration wasn't in his name, but he could call…someone. There had to be someone.

He patted his jean pockets, front and back, the chest pocket of his shirt then the chest pocket of his coat. The exterior pockets were empty as well, and he'd started calling out to Sam - "Where's my pho -" - but the breath was choked in his throat as he stuck a searching hand into his breast pocket for his cell. His fingers closing around a very familiar mound of fabric.

His heart gave two monstrous pumps in his chest, shoving the flood of blood to his ears, then stopped altogether.

He could vaguely hear approaching footsteps, and Sam came around the bend of the trunk. "What'd you say?"

Dean struggled for breath passed the lodge in his throat. With the last vestiges of his conscious brain power he knew to close his mouth, and at least try to say something. "My phone."

"Oh," Sam said, putting his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. "I took it while you were sleeping in case something happened." Sam offered the phone, pinched between his fingers, but for a second Dean didn't understand what he was seeing. His mind wasn't catching up. He dislodged his hand from the charm in his pocket and took his phone.

"Get in the car."

"Alright, I'll drive."

"No," Dean stopped him. "I'm driving."

"This is my fault, I want to help fix - "

"Help fix it by getting in the car." He was aware his tone was dire but the sound wouldn't leave his voice. "Listen to me this time."

Sam went on as if to argue back but thought better. He closed his mouth as he turned, a scowl on his face, and put himself into the car. Only once the door slammed after him and Dean forced a deep breath into his dying lungs did he finally pull out the charm. The smooth purple fabric was unscorched, unmarked, and entirely whole in its shape and form. In his hand it had the same exact weight as before, only now multiplied by the pressure of dread in his heart. The cord tying closed looked exactly the same, and as Dean ran his hands across velvet he knew it was unchanged as well, yet having seen the ashes with his own eyes, he still couldn't believe it.

—

The trek was slow but if that was the courtesy of their three-point-five tires or **Dean's **confusion, it didn't matter. Lucky for them both Sam had picked a decent highway on his way to God knew where, and before too long Dean began spying exit signs for a town called Sweetwater, their hazard lights flashing all the way. It was just passed six o'clock and if Dean hadn't kept his eye on the growing storm clouds he would have thought the darkness of the early hour strange. Even in the relatively short time he'd been awake, the clouds were in completely different shapes, filling new areas of the sky. It was like a black mold growing over the sun. Every so often Dean would feel wild gusts of wind tear and push against the car and grow more worried. They didn't have time to be stuck in the storm. Nowhere, now that they were in Tennessee, to go.

They finally took the exit forty minutes later at a cool and calm ten miles-an-hour, though Dean felt anything but. His jaw was clenched with a tight ache in the joint, biting the inside of his mouth to keep his words in. It was a completely understandable accident that the tire popped while Sam drove - most nights he was a tow driver, he knew people didn't care what they threw out of their windows, or what they left behind them as they drove away, trash for someone else to run over - and he wouldn't blame Sam for that. However, this was all avoidable - getting caught in the storm, the popped tire itself, the stress, the money. And for what? Because Sam didn't want to listen to anything coming out of a hunter's mouth? Because he was so hungry for running he was willing to put them in this danger?

And now this charm was back, as if nothing had even happened to it. Of course he'd woken up a few times over the course of the day, had it been in his pocket then? Or had it been the side effect of his thoughts on Jameson, after waking? His leg started bouncing faster.

Dean didn't understand it. And as their car hobbled through the few residential streets of Northpoint and made their way into Sweetwater, Dean found another layer to his frustration. Sam hadn't spoken since they'd gotten in the car - excuses or otherwise - and as agonizing as it felt, it was probably for the better. Although, neither had he.

They happened upon what was most likely Sweetwater's main drag - each town had one - and Dean decided to follow it till he found an auto shop, forgetting in his mood that Sam could probably find one on the map. But at the very least they weren't contesting with traffic on the barren street. After a time they came to a red traffic light and they clunked to a stop and were greeted by a wide banner strung from pole to pole, flapping in the hard wind over the intersection.

_ May 1st - 4th_

_Bring the family to the fair grounds to celebrate the Cantaloupe Festival!_

_Face Painting - Carnival Rides - House of Mirrors - Food and Drinks_

_CANCELED_

The hastily placed CANCELED sticker covered the word 'Mirrors' in bright red letters, but he had no trouble reading it still. The light turned green and the engine revved with Dean's insistence. That explained the empty streets. Hopefully everyone was held up in their basements, or out of town entirely. He crossed all the fingers he could in the hopes that something would be open.

They came across a center of drive-thrus and gas stations. He picked a Shell station with a garage attached to the side. Dean's breath was coming fast at the sight of the small parking lot, fearing it, just like everything else they'd passed, would be closed for the weather. But the neon OPEN sign came into view as they pulled in closer and Dean let go of a fraction of his grief.

"Thank fuckin' God," he murmured. Sam made no comment.

A bell dinged above him as he entered the shop. The garage had its own door separate from the gas station, Sam electing to stay in the car with a subtle nod. Familiar smells of oil and chemicals reached his nose. A car was off its wheels in the main garage. The small room was lined on two sides by racks of empty tires. Dean stepped around a stain of fresh-looking oil and made his way to the office, the bright florescent light a calling card in the din.

As Dean rounded the entrance, he found someone was sitting before a small CRT television. Dean knocked and the man jumped, the fork in his hand falling into the plastic container in the other. He was a stout looking man with short hair and mustache in matching grays, his eyes wide behind a pair of glasses. After his sound of surprise he took his feet from where they rested on the desk, depositing his meal to the side, then wiped his hands on his oiled jumpsuit as he stood.

"Sorry 'bout that, young man, was just catching up on a break." The man extended a hand to Dean, who took it, shaking in greeting.

"That's okay, sir, didn't mean to startle you. I've got a, uh, flat, and have to pick up a new tire."

"Not a worry, my friend." He picked up a black remote off the counter and pointed it to the TV, which soda-can pop-fizzled till the screen was black. "Get 'er on in here an we'll get a patch on it."

"No, this tire's shredded." The hunched old man walked Dean out from the office and into the main garage, flicking a switch on the wall. Florescent lights above them flickered to life. "There's not enough patching in the world for this."

The old man nodded in understanding, taking Dean to the racks of tires which he was surprised was actually three rows deep. Dean offered the style of tire he needed, and it was in one of these stacks where they searched for the replacement when the mechanic glanced over Dean's shoulder, smiling that customer service smile.

"Hello there, young man, I'll be right with ya."

"I'm with him."

Dean turned at the familiar timid voice and found Sam walking up behind. They caught eyes, Sam putting his hands in his pockets while Dean offered a nod. Sam's gaze fell away as his mouth thinned, nodding back.

"Sorry, son, but it's lookin' like I only have the next model up." The old man peered around a tire the one behind, and Dean saw the empty few rows where the tires he needed would have been. The short distance his heart had climbed plummeted again. He knew what those tires were - knew the price tag that came along with them - but he still needed to hear it.

"What'll that run me?"

"This model's the top range, for snow-and-sleet, so unfortunately it'll run you about seventy-five dollars more. These are just shy of two hundred a tire."

Dean closed his eyes as his gut clenched. From behind, he heard Sam give a half-whistle.

Dean asked, "And what's the installation fee?"

"Fifty."

Dean's squeezed his eyes tighter. To his credit, the man knew the prices were steep. But Dean understood - business is business.

"Okay."

"Sound like a plan?"

_No_, he thought. "Yeah, sounds like."

The old man slapped the side of the tire appreciatively. "Let's get you wrung up," he called, "and then we'll get your car in here."

Back in the office, the man pressed the button of a keyboard to a computer Dean hadn't first seen. He pressed a few buttons while Dean bounced his leg. "After tax it'll be two-seventy-nine and eighty-four cents. Cash or card for you today, son?"

Dean curled his lips ruefully, saying, "It'll have to be card," as he tugged a card free from his wallet and begrudgingly handed it over. Sam hadn't followed, Dean saw when he glanced over his shoulder, watched while his brother was eyeing something in a far corner Dean couldn't see. As Sam disappeared around the corner, the man picked up an ancient card reader and slid Dean's card in his stained fingers.

"I don't think I've seen you two around here before, y'all in town for the cantaloupe festival?"

"Oh, no," Dean answered, "just passing through. But it must be pretty popular, the whole town's empty."

"Yeah, normally, it gets pretty busy. The kids love it but there ain't much someone like me would be there for. More of a carnival type of thing than a festival. But we got that storm runnin' up on us, I'm not sure what the crowd is gonna be this year. Got the news on," he pointed over his shoulder to the CRT he'd been watching. Dean suppressed his grin, knowing it wasn't the news. "It's coming up fast. I'm wonderin' if they'll start running the sirens pretty soon."

"We passed a banner with a closed sticker on it, my guess is everyone's inside."

"No kidding." The man hit the green enter button, gutting Dean's bank account with the press of a button. "I don't get to hear much of the town gossip hold up in here. Makes sense it'd be closed."

A tense second passed till an angry sounding beep came from the machine. The old man frowned underneath his thick gray brows. "Says declined, but we'll try it again. This machine's as old as I am."

Dean checked his wallet then, wondering if he'd made the same mistake of handing over the wrong card, but he'd been right. The card was swiped again, and after another moment, he heard the same noise, as damning as the pound of a gavel.

"Sorry son, this card ain't workin'. Maybe you have a different one?"

"Hey," Dean heard Sam say from behind. He had his head poked around the doorframe, his brows tight. "Someone's, uh, crying in the restroom."

The old man turned to him, forgetting the declined card in his hand. "In the - they're what?"

"Crying," Sam supplied.

"In the bathroom?"

Sam's eyes darted around the room. "Yeah. They didn't answer me, though."

Disbelief fell upon the man's face. Dean snuck the bad card from his fingers, snapping the man back to attention. "That can't be right," the man went on, "it's just the three of us in here."

Sam walked in the room, shrugging his shoulders. Dean hadn't heard anything, though he'd been more concerned about his wallet. Sam said, "Door was locked but someone was definitely in there, crying their eyes out."

"Well, of course the door is gonna be locked, son." His hand disappeared behind the counter and brought back a key, dangling off a chain attached to a narrow piece of plastic, on which Dean read the word, 'Bathroom'. His eyes widened, pulse going still. He chanced a look at Sam, who's face held the intensity of someone questioning what they'd clearly heard. This old man might be sure his bathroom was empty but Dean knew the luck of their trip, remembered the charm in his pocket. His nerves jackknifed at the third addition to his things to worry about

"Uh, so, how much if I install it myself?"

"If you just take the tire and go?" Dean nodded quickly. "After tax, just over two hundred."

"For a _tire_?" Sam asked, voice pinched.

"Okay, I should have that. Knock that off the price and try the card again."

"Try it again?" Sam asked. "It didn't work before?"

The man grew apprehensive. "I already tried it twice, son, I'm not - "

"I promise it'll work this time, since it's cheaper now. I'm good for it."

The old man took the card back from Dean, though it was clear he didn't want to. Just as before, he ran the strip through the reader, and they waited. Dean's senses were at an eleven out of ten, listening for all that he could, preparing for anything he couldn't. Though he strained for it, he wasn't hearing what Sam had. He hadn't even seen a bathroom, didn't know which direction he should be listening in, but regardless it was only the ticking clock and the rushing wind outside, howling now like a wolf to the moon, that he heard. His leg began bouncing again, and he stopped it, again. This couldn't go on any more, this aimless driving; he was going to get this tire, get it on, and take them home, even if he had to fit Sam in the empty spare tire compartment. There was literally no other option - go home, or start begging for change in front of WalMarts and highway onramps. His gaze landed on Sam, who with a hard eye was staring back, reading what he was seeing, trying to confirm something.

"That's a lot of money," Sam murmured.

Dean blinked in surprise. "Yeah, that's how it goes. Go out to the car." Dean took the keys from his pocket and put them in Sam's hand. "Get it started. We'll use the bathroom somewhere…" Dean pulsed his eyes, driving the point harder. "Else."

To his credit, Sam didn't argue, instead rolled his jaw as he looked at the keys. He walked out, a sulk in his step.

The old man hummed a noise of surprise. Dean saw a green light on the screen of the card reader where a red one had been before. He exhaled, letting loose some of his worry. Paid for a tire, but could they get home still?

Dean pocketed his card after taking it from the attendant, began signing the receipt.

"You're sure you don't want a hand, getting that tire on there? It really wouldn't be no trouble."

"No, I can manage. We're - " Dean glanced around the room, saw Sam was gone, then went back to finishing his name. "Really in a hurry."

As if on cue, the wall at his side creaked against a new barrage of wind. Dean scribbled faster.

"You'll need an air compressor," the man said, taking the receipt back.

"I'll find a gas station that takes quarters."

"And a pry-bar, get the tire over the rim - "

"No, really, I've got it, but thank you so much, man." Wallet; phone; charm, unfortunately; he was ready. "Sorry - I meant sir." The mechanic took Dean back to the tire stacks and pulled his purchase off the top. Dean didn't want to listen - only wanted out - but whether the faint drawls he was picking up at the edge of the noises was someone crying or just the wind, he wasn't eager to stay and figure that out.

"Thank you for your help," Dean said, pushing the tire and rolling it towards the entrance. Halfway he remembered himself, and stopped to turn towards the man.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Robert," the gruff man answered.

"Robert, thank you for your help. And, uh, you might want to get out of the building, call the police, maybe. It's just a feeling but I think someone might actually be in your bathroom."

A second passed and Robert seemed to catch up with Dean's words, turning towards the corner to where Dean finally caught sight of a restroom sign. He didn't stick around to see more; the tire bounced as it rolled over the door trim and into the open air, the gray sky. Through the windshield he saw the figure of his brother, head back against the passenger headrest, staring at the ceiling.

Two quick slaps on the trunk - one-two - and Sam pulled the lever, popping it open, and after a quick heave the tire was inside, the trunk was shut, and the two tiptoed in a crooked car back onto the road, towards a glowing Chevron gas station sign in the distance.


	28. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

**Sam's **stomach was a knot of guilt, heavy like he'd swallowed rocks, or the glass that had shredded their tire. The feeling was a slick over the inside of his mouth. Dean's card had gotten declined because of him - his mistake, taking them south when he was supposed to be going north. And now, as they drove, Dean wasn't saying anything. All Sam could do was spare a few tentative glances to his brother while he drove them…some place, he didn't know where, at five miles an hour. Felt too pensive to ask.

The engine revved as they picked up a little speed, cracking the silence in the cab. Sam turned to Dean expectantly.

"Look in the ashtray," Dean said. "Find me some quarters."

"Okay." He sat up fast and pulled open the tray, the loose change rattling. "How - how much?"

"Two dollars or so. Just need to use the air pump then we're gone."

"Gone?" Sam started rummaging through the coins. "Where can we get to?" _Before the storm gets us_?

"I…don't know, Sammy." Dean sighed. "I've never gotten stuck in a ghost storm before."

"It's just a tornado - "

Dean pointed his eyes at him, silencing him with a look and a firm mouth.

Sam sighed, flexing his jaw as he stared hard at the change in his hands. He would save it for later. He resumed his hunt for quarters.

After a hundred years of the tense air, the brakes squealed like a mewling kitten as they pulled into another gas station parking lot. The Chevron sign on the corner was a smatter of neon blue and bright white against the grim, brewing storm clouds that covered the sky. Any other day of the week it would have been more of a maze finding some place to park, but as they bumped and wobbled over the dip in the curb and through the lot, Sam noticed they had their pick of the place. Two cars were all that lined the front curb by the entrance doors though they stood empty, and all six spots at the pump were barren. They rolled through like a ghost themselves. The car stopped at a curb just passed the pumps, to a station set into the side of the building. On the wall, the Chevron cars with the big eyes announced the air compressor.

Dean silently held out a hand for the quarters. Sam dumped all he'd been able to find into his palm. Without a word, Dean unlatched himself, pulled the trunk's release, and was out of the car. The moment he'd opened his door a mushroom cloud of noise and wind filled the cab, washing out the stagnant air of discomfort, only to be cut off when Dean slammed it shut. Sam sat for a moment staring at the empty door, his heart clutching at him. He climbed out through his door just a second later.

"What can I do?"

Dean had an arm through the empty tire and was holding up the trunk with the other. "Nothing. Stay in the air, that'll help me."

Sam took a few steps closer. "This is my fault, you can let me do _something_."

"You can help by letting me get this done." He let go of his arm and the new tire fell to the ground, rolling around like a spent frisbee before coming to a halt. The sound of digging, a pause, the clamor of metal, and Dean held a tire iron in hand. His brow was hard and his jaw was tight. He turned and tossed the iron to the ground beside the tire, ringing like a gong in the empty lot. For a second Dean's upper body disappeared inside the trunk.

"Dean," Sam insisted.

Dean was out and closing the trunk all in the same motion. "_Sam_. Please, you've helped enough."

Sam froze at the sting of the words, the blood rushing to his face. He considered Dean, the mussed pieces of his short hair flicking in the wind, a bottle of his shampoo held tight enough to bulge the veins on the backside of his hand.

Dean closed his eyes as he sighed. "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair."

"I said I was sorry."

"I know you did. I know you are. It's - I just don't get it, man. How?"

Sam shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. "I told you I don't know, there was literally nothing in the road - "

"No, how? How is all of this so…" Dean gestured around, tense shoulders and face, trying to drum up the words. "Absurd? You sweep this all under the rug like you haven't seen the craziest shit in the world."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Are you talking about the tornado?"

"I'm talking about the werewolves in Alma and - and this storm, and the vamps in Lyon on Friday that dad wanted help with. All our lives we've been stitched at the hip. And until a year ago I knew everything about you. This shit exists," Dean said, putting his arms out as though he held it all right there. "It's been in our faces our entire lives, why do you suddenly pretend you don't see any of it?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but didn't. It felt like forcing a basketball through a funnel; the answers were too large for his mouth, to dense to be said aloud let alone for Dean to understand. A part of him knew this is where the trip was heading towards all the while, and was surprised it had taken them four days to get to it, this altercation. And if he couldn't fit the words in his mouth as they stood then there was no point using lesser ones.

Although, it was beginning to dawn on him that maybe it wasn't the words themselves that couldn't be said, and only that he didn't _want _to say them. To voice aloud his hatred towards the things that had ruined him, who he'd become as a result, was to speak against _Dean_, and the person he had become, too. Sam's respect for his brother had grown again over the passed four days. He had no right to speak against him, after all his support and attentiveness. These things he wanted to say were about the hatred he had for himself, the person his life had forced _him _to become, and therefore, his alone to posses. But he couldn't put the judgment against himself without also putting them on his brother.

And yet… _History repeats itself_. That was the idea in his head. Why was he the one to pay for what John and this world had done to him? He had been pure, clean clay in their hands and this is what they did with it - torture him into isolation, into the backseats of countless different cars, had whittled his belongings down to what he could fit in a duffel bag, stripped him to the bone where he looked the same as every other skeleton. Who would be the one to answer for it? And if he sat back and did nothing about it, it was going to continue to happen. To him, and kids like him, who could do nothing to stop it. The business was like a lion, in a cage; hunters and monsters were a taint, swallowing whole anyone that came close to it. Dean was as much a victim to it as he was.

Now, the challenge was how Sam was going to erase the hold it had on his life without erasing himself alongside it. But…maybe there was no helping that.

"We're, uh…" Dean started, glancing down to fiddle with the ring on his finger. "We're out of money now, Sammy. So, I think it goes without saying that…you know what that means." He glanced back at Sam, who felt the blood rush back down to his feet. He did know what that meant.

"No."

"I think you do."

"No."

He sighed, shaking his head as he began turning away. "We don't really have time for 'no' right now." Dean walked to the tire iron he'd tossed aside and took it in his free hand. He set the shampoo bottle down carefully inside the ring of the new tire and moved to kneel in front of the shredded one, disappearing behind the car. Sam took the privacy as a chance to finally blink, yet he chalked up the burn in his eyes to the howling wind. He could hear Dean as he began working, saw the car gently begin tilting towards him from the jack, catching the periodical _tink_ as one lug-nut fell to the asphalt, then another, watching the flag at the edge of the gas station lot whip and snap against the wind. It was a red spot of blood against the darkening clouds.

Conviction tugged at his heart. He stepped up to the bumper, if only to see Dean's face while he spoke. "You said I didn't have to go back to Lyon. So that was a lie?"

Pushing against the t-shaped iron, Dean grunted, "At the time, no." The seal popped, and he began spinning it with his already black-stained fingers.

"But now you are?"

Dean looked up then, a new frustration on his face that made the whites of his eyes visible. "Do you not get how this works, Sam? How mistakes work? We were fine, but then shit happened, and now we're not. I was okay spending the money I had on our trip because it was with you, but now I can't do that anymore. Fuck if I know if we have enough to get us back to Lyon to begin with. Does that make sense to you?"

"You don't have to lecture me about money, Dean."

"Apparently I do." A new gust of wind butted up against the side of the car, catching Sam in the face, the only precursor the growing rumble in the air as it came upon them. He thought he felt the slight pinpricks of new rain. Dean was unbothered. "It's time to _think_, Sam, for once on this trip. How did you expect us to make it out here? Driving around forever?"

"That's _all _I'm doing here, Dean, is thinking." Painfully, in circles, again and again he was thinking. About where to go and what to do when they got there, wherever 'there' was, how they would live when they found it. He'd be free of it if he knew how.

"You're _not_!" Dean stood up and moved closer around the bumper, to meet Sam's eye. If he'd had nothing else to go on, that was one way to know Dean was John's son. Only, Dean still had to look up when he looked at Sam. Sam's breath was fast, matching his heartbeat, while he looked down his nose. There was a time they would have been eye level with each other. They'd missed that over the gap year. "I didn't lie to you, Sam, I wouldn't. I meant what I said, that you _didn't _have to go back to Lyon. But we don't have a choice anymore."

"If that's the issue, we can use mine."

"Use your what?" Dean's hard eyes narrowed slightly. This close they had no issue hearing each other over the wind.

"My money."

Dean searched Sam's face. "You don't have any money."

Sam broke the stare, taking long strides back to the passenger door. He'd thought keeping the money in his duffel might be a bad idea, opting instead for his wallet where could be sure no one was walking away with it. It was all he'd had, after all. He found the wallet in the small pocket at the bottom of the door, snatching it up. He slammed the door behind him, aided by the wind, and opened his wallet, pulling aside one bill as he walked back to Dean, then another, then a third.

"What do we need for a tank of gas? Thirty? Forty? I've got it." He pulled out the bills and pushed them at his brother, pressed into the meat of his chest. Dean rocked backwards as the finger struck, put in a moment of surprise. His mouth had fallen slightly open, looking down at Sam's hand still holding the cash, his brows high.

"So?" Sam went on. "What's the problem, then?"

Dean didn't take the money. "Have you - where did you get this?"

"It's mine," Sam said. "It was - " But he cut himself off. _For Claudia. California_. He didn't want to say the words aloud. Who knew what he might summon there with them if he did? "Just a savings."

Over the passing seconds Dean's surprise turned the corner to something more bitter. He spared a few glances down at the money and back up to Sam's face while his frown began.

"I don't _want _your money." Dean brought up a hand and pushed firmly against Sam's shoulder. It wasn't a shove, didn't have anything stronger than get-off-me behind it, and so Sam did, but Dean's mouth was falling into a scowl. "How long have you had that? This whole time?"

"I - what do you mean? Of course I have."

"How much?"

"Enough."

"How much?" The beginnings of concern were trickling into Sam's blood, not at Dean's fierceness, but the opposite - his voice was nothing but steady. Sam couldn't read what was happening, and that worried him.

"_Enough_, Dean. Like two hundred dollars."

A laugh seemed to eject itself from Dean, a single, bewildered one. His eyes were wide and the odd smile never slipped away, and he spent a second staring at Sam with a power behind his gaze. Sam shifted his weight, realizing he still had the bills hanging in his hand, begging for someone to take it. He shoved the money back in his wallet and then back in his pocket.

"This whole time. Two hundred dollars."

"I don't - "

"I've been…I called in every favor I had, to bring you out here."

"That - "

"My savings is empty, now, Sam. Just getting us here. And now the tire." He gestured to it, eyes unfocused as though he was talking to the air. "And you had two hundred dollars just - _burning _a hole in your pocket." A second laugh came out of his mouth, a little more crazed. Sam swallowed. As though the clouds were just inches above their heads, the world around them was put into a tumbler, thunder shaking the ground under their feet. For a few seconds all other sound was cut off from them besides the deafening rumble.

When the world around them settled down, Dean turned and locked his stare at Sam, the same strength in his eyes while he shook his head slightly. "Fuck, Sam."

"What?"

Dean went on shaking his head, looking away, as he began fishing his arms out from his coat.

"_What_, Dean? You told me you'd worry about money."

Dean's bare arms slid out from the sleeves.

"You wouldn't have taken the cash even if I'd - "

The coat got balled into one hand - and pitched at Sam's face, like a baseball. The last thing Sam glimpsed was the look of fury on Dean's face disappearing behind the flash of the coat hitting him. It cut the words off in Sam's mouth, who sputtered as the coat hit, and, when it fell away and Sam was back in the shrouded light of the day, Dean had turned back to the car like he was simply going back to work. For a few moments, Sam didn't have any words.

"I - "

Dean turned over his shoulder, silencing him with the venom in his voice. "_Save it_, Sam. Get in the car or something. Go sit against the wall. But just leave me alone for a minute."

Sam watched Dean disappear behind the car for the second time with a glare in his eyes, and not before long the sound of his grunted effort and clinking lug-nuts was back in the electrified air. Sam's arms fell, swinging at his side. For a moment he stood. In his butt pocket the wallet was a thousand-pound anchor. The screaming gusts of wind would have carried him away, otherwise. He looked around them. The streets were deserted. It felt like they were the only two people alive in this town. A second Cantaloupe Festival banner crossed the street at nearby telephone poles, pulling against the clips so hard it looked like it could fly away at any second. The CLOSED sticker must have blown off this one.

Sam bent and grabbed the collar of Dean's coat just as the shredded tire appeared from behind the bumper, rolling a few feet before the mangled rubber collapsed on itself. Sam's heartbeat was in his head. There had never been this kind of reaction before, from Dean. Of course it was nature that brothers fought, and a person didn't exist in their world without getting physical with each other, but Dean had meant it when he threw the coat. Sam knew that. He felt like an ass. He jerked the coat by the collar to straighten it out and moved to lay it across the bumper. But that was when Dean stood, and that was when Sam saw it -

Tucked in the breast pocket like a secret, another crushed velvet bag. He looked at Dean.


	29. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

If there had been anything else for it **Dean **would have been more than happy to let Robert change their tire. Just because he knew how to do it by hand didn't mean he wanted to. It was annoying work at best, infuriating at the worst. There were the times, out on a call in his truck where the client's tire was no less shredded than theirs, who hadn't had spares either. It was the nature of operators to bring some along, though, to save everyone the trouble. But he'd never changed a flat in the middle of a ghost storm before, and neither did he want to do so again, least of all when he was drowning in his temper. He wished he had his truck in that moment, if only to get them both out of there sooner. And so that he wouldn't have to take them back to Lyon. Back to their dad.

Who hadn't called in…hours. If Dean hadn't been sitting in the middle of the thunder and wind, underneath the pressing storm clouds and the dense pressure in the air, he might have been more worried about that than anything else.

The last lug-nut came away from its bolt and he dropped it to the side among the others. The wheel came free in his hands.

When this whole thing blew over - when they dodged the storm and Dean had some more money, when they cleared the air with their dad and Dean could get them all to California - it would be better. _They _would be better. They would have the time to -

Dean stood and came up short, seeing Sam already staring at him. There was a bewilderment in his eyes, a new kind of tension in his jaw. One hand was clutched on the lapel of Dean's discarded coat, and, too, another invisible one tightened around his throat.

"What the hell is this?" Sam asked. He didn't add the lilt of a question, the words too full of fury to have room for anything else.

Dean swallowed but nothing felt better, feeling the thumping blood settle in his throat and the tips of his fingers. He didn't need to look to see what Sam was asking after. It would be about the same thing Dean had been asking after the entire trip.

But he had to remember, Sam didn't know what it was, didn't know the truth of it. If he could be careful about -

Dean didn't answer in time, apparently. Sam went on. "It looks like that shit from Ms. Gonzalez. Yeah?"

"It - no, not - not - "

"It's a yes-or-no question, Dean." Dean saw Sam's nostrils flare. No, this wasn't a yes-or-no question. "I fucking knew it."

Dean grabbed at the straw. "Knew - knew what?"

"At Jameson's, I knew it was something else. Stopping there. You weren't just 'helping him with his ashtray'. What kind of lame ass excuse is that, anyway?" He dropped the coat then like it was a disgusting thing, the tip of his mouth turned in a sneer. Dean took a step around the bumper. Sam's eyes were focused on Dean. "And all this time, not sleeping, or letting me get too close to your things, like I would find it. You going to keep lying to me?"

"Wait, I didn't lie to you."

"But you did."

"I _didn't_, I needed to pay Jameson back somehow for your shower, so I was helping him."

"Helping him get high? So what is this?" He took a purposeful step back to Dean's coat and tugged it open once more, digging through the pocket for the satchel. "Crack? Dope? Is it pot?" Sam's forceful hand became rougher as he searched the coat. At the sudden object in his back pocket, Dean closed his eyes and sighed, letting the frustration run rampant for a moment. He knew Sam wouldn't find it. Nothing was louder than the screaming wind than the pulsing of the blood through his ears. Sam had no idea the stakes Dean was up against to make this a safe trip, to prove to Sam that things would be fine if he stayed, yet here he was, accusing Dean of all these things. Being a drunk, a crack head, a liar. A bad brother, only out for himself.

When he forced open his eyes Sam had his coat by the bottom cuff, shaking it upside down. Dean saw a flip lighter loosed from a pocket as it began to fall, and then his phone. The plastic crunched against the asphalt like a gavel. _This is enough_.

He stepped forward and snatched the coat out of Sam's hand, for a moment forgetting his things strewn across the ground. With a few fingers pressed against Sam's chest Dean pushed once more, saying, "You hate me, is that it? Think your big brother is some kind of fuckhead?"

"I think you're a liar, Dean," Sam sneered. "My brother will not be an addict. I'm getting rid of it."

"You're up your ass about all these lies but you wouldn't accept the truth if it was sucking your dick." Dean closed the distance Sam created with each small step backwards. He wanted to be in Sam's space, wanted to give him what he'd wanted this entire time - someone to blame. "It's not drugs, moron, it's a charm."

"You're addicted, Dean."

Dean pulled out the velvet bag from behind, held it up in the air for Sam to see. A flicker of confusion crossed Sam's face and for some reason Dean took that as a little win.

"And you're an ass," Dean said. "Go ahead." An underhand toss put the charm on the asphalt between him and Sam, who'd backed away from the charm as if it were a bomb. "Try and open it," Dean said. "Show me the drugs you find in there."

Dean crossed his arms. Sam eyed his brother sternly before stooping to take up the velvet bag. A moment of uncertainty passed while Dean forced the thought that Sam would destroy the charm, that this time it might not work. But the magic reacted to Dean's intent as usual. Where the charm had been real just before Sam's fingertips half a second before was now open air. Once again, Dean pulled the bag from his back pocket, holding it up like a trophy. Sam's brow flattened. The wind between them was trying to tear away Sam's hair that had come loose from the tie in the back.

"That's because you can't."

Sam was staring at his hands, clawed as they'd been in his reach. "It's a…"

"Charm." Dean turned to face the lot, reeling his arm back. He threw the charm like a baseball. After some distance the purple bag faded into the colors of the clouds, but he saw it fall in the middle of the street, and, when he faced Sam again, knew he'd seen it, too. This was why, when Dean pulled the charm out of his pocket again, Sam's eyes grew ten sizes.

A puff of air escaped Sam's lips while he tried to form the words. A second passed and he spoke again. "Why do you have that?"

"To keep us safe, show you that you can be around me without getting killed. That the world isn't out to get us like you think it is. I don't know why it's always going in my pockets, though." He stalked back to the car and set the charm on the trunk along with his coat. Without it he thought he was beginning to feel the beginnings of rain on his arms, noticing then that he could smell it on the wind, too. The gentle hills he had been able to see in the distance no more than twenty minutes ago were now hidden behind the haze of the storm.

"Ms. Gonzalez is..."

"A witch, yeah."

"Not a drug dealer."

"Of course not," he called. "Well, she still might be, I don't know." He dug into the meat of his hands, wringing out the chill that was settling in, trying to turn his focus back to the work that had to be done. If they got caught in this rain…

A pause. "And you…had this," Sam said. "The whole time."

Dean sighed, turned to face Sam. The places behind his eyes that had gone vacant from the surprise were starting to come back to life, a fiery glint that was putting some color back in his cheeks. Sam broke his gaze from the space between them and put them on Dean. They felt like they weighed twenty pounds, ten each.

"The whole time," Sam said again. "And you had two. Two of them."

"No, that one was different as far as I know. Anything could have been in that one. I was really just the mule. As payment."

"And they were - "

"Witches, yes. Probably, I mean." Dean remembered the bug-eyed man and English woman they'd met with in Oklahoma. He should never have let Sam believe the drug story, however useful it had been at the time, let alone let him go inside, put him in that danger. This trip had been filled with stories and half truths. Despite the expression on Sam's face, he was glad to be done with them, now.

"I was going to say dangerous," Sam continued.

Dean opened his mouth to cut him off, but he wasn't wrong.

"They were dangerous, Dean."

"Fine, they were dangerous, but it's done now. And the fucking thing doesn't even work - " He threw a disgusted hand towards the charm, there one moment and gone as his hand passed over it, leaving the trunk bare. His nostrils flared as the breath left his body and he forced a trembling hand into his back pocket, missing the bag once, twice, snatching it up on the third and pulling it out like a weed. He threw it with a hiss, indiscriminate to the direction, over and over as though it was the punctuation in his words.

"And it won't -

"Fucking -

"Leave!"

It soared once more in a tall arc disappearing this time over the roof of the Chevron. The smiling cars plastered to the wall having the greatest time at Dean's anguish. This time, when the charm reassured itself into Dean's pocket, he had tired himself out. He took it out and underhanded it back onto the trunk. As his breath slowed the charm stayed put, only crumpling to the side in a fresh blow of wind. When he turned he saw Sam stood still as an onlooker with his arms dangling at his sides. His eyes were big. Dean noticed then, in an odd dip of the wind, that the empty pumps were still playing the same juke-box style music even though the entire place seemed abandoned.

'Save tonight,

'And fight the break of dawn,

'Come tomorrow,

'Tomorrow I'll be gone.'

Sam piped up, "Looks more like a curse. Then a charm."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah. Some luck."

"That's what happens." Sam paused, nodding, offering the hint of a shrug. "When you fuck around with witches. Or vampires. Ghosts."

"Sam."

"You get fucked. Glad we're on the same page now, at least."

"I'm not going to say sorry for trying to protect you, Sam."

"What about for lying?" The words left Sam's mouth as though it had surprised him.

"God, you love that word. No, for protecting you. Be as mad as you want, but that's my job." He knew he was becoming flustered again but his breath was coming quick and he couldn't force it to slow.

Sam's cheeks deepened in color. He took a single step forward, pointing his finger in the air as though to pin the idea in place. Connecting dots, like Jameson's map of the storm. "So that means - in Alma. You had it then. In your pocket while you were promising me we wouldn't do anymore hunting."

"And we didn't do any hunting, not a lie."

"Don't play dumb, Dean."

Dean swallowed again. He shifted his weight to the other foot under Sam's intense stare, his throat tighter than a vice. But always he had his pride, and that let him speak regardless.

"What about you, huh? All this money you got. You were just going to let me run you around the country till my wheels fell off. Let me lose my job and everything in my house. You tired of running yet, Sammy?"

He used the moniker on purpose. Poke Sam where it hurt, make him feel a little of this guilt Dean was feeling himself. "You poke me in the chest all you want but I'm not the only party at fault, here."

"I'm not _running _from anything. _My_ money was my business until it was important. And now it's important. What do you want me to say, Dean? You insisted on paying for everything." With every word that left Sam's mouth his volume grew, but it was all coming from his stomach, not his chest. It was assertive, deep. Strong.

"Because it's your birthday. But you are, Sam, running away like a little puss because your girlfriend dumped you and you had a fight with dad."

Sam leaned forward on the spot, his jaw falling open while his eyes grew into speculative slits. A moment passed. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Why didn't you call me?" Dean blurted.

Sam stopped short. "Call you when?"

"It was an entire year, Sam, and you didn't even try to find me." As the words let him he knew he needed the answer, whatever it was. It had been the weight on his chest, each night for the past year, in the stillness of night while he slept, _where has my brother gone?_

Sam's face had fallen from its high place, his eyes clearer, his mouth a slight pout in thought. "You…were gone, I thought you wanted to be gone. I told you this."

"It has to be something else, Sam - you're too stubborn to let something like that go. You…"

_You hated me; you hated yourself; you hated something_. Dare he speak his thoughts? Put them into the world, make them real?

_No_. "You had something," he went on. Paused. "Something that stopped you. I could have really used you, man."

"Well," Sam said. His weight shifted back on his heels, coming off his toes. "I could have used you, too."

They stood for a moment, not saying anything but still somehow having a conversation.

Sam broke the silence first. The hard edge was back in his features. "And I believed you, that you and me were…in this together." His brow tightened hard over his eyes. "What else are you lying about? Dad didn't even make you leave, I bet. Did he?"

"No, you're wrong," Dean said finally, the allusion in Sam's words forcing about a different magic.

"You wanted out of there as much as I did. You did it to - " Sam paused. His next words were thinner than before under the gusts of wind. "To get away. You had to have"

"I would never do that. Not in my life, Sam. You're the - " It surprised him, his own emotion. The words had their own kind of magic on him. He blinked his eyes, sniffled hard through his nose. "You're the only thing in this world that matters to me. I did it for you."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "But you're doing something to me now." He crept forward with a few more steps. "You aren't protecting me."

A wild thought crossed Dean's mind and he wondered if he were dreaming again; the outside lights flickered, wildly, like someone was jacking off the power switch. Sam's gaze flicked about, but Dean could tell he wasn't seeing anything. But Dean was. He knew what the lights meant.

"We've got to go, Sammy. We aren't safe here."

Sam's attention focused on Dean, again. "Yeah," he breathed, eyes unflinching in their stare. "You're right."

Dean strode back to the car and took up the rim and its shredded tire, dropping it harshly on the ground before forcing the flat end of the tire iron between the rubber and the metal. Alongside the inevitable slick guilt that clung to the walls of his stomach was a panic that they weren't moving fast enough, had given the storm too much time to cover the ground they'd crossed. But Dean wouldn't give up until they were sucked into the spinning tornado itself. If it was so intent on getting his blood, it was going to have to kill him. Although, their escape would go faster if he had a second pair of hands.

"Sam, come help me, we don't have - "

He made a double take over his shoulder. He was talking to nobody but himself and the wind.


	30. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

Through the back window, **Dean **saw the car was vacant.

He looked to the parking lot but he could see it was empty. And the street beyond, too, was naked. The specs of coolness he'd felt on his arms turned into falling rain, a sputter that, even as he stood searching began growing stronger, and the beat of his heart turned so leaden that each pulse was hurting his ears.

Dean leapt into action. From somewhere far off he recalled the time a childhood Sam thought hiding in the turnstile of coats at a Birmingham mall would be funny, and the way their dad had reacted, tearing the store apart while the employees yelled for Sam over the intercom. He remembered the animal quality he'd seen in their father's eyes. This was how Dean felt now. At the very least, this time Sam was on foot in a deserted town; he couldn't be far at all but the sprint to the corner turned up nothing but an infuriatingly barren intersection. Dean put out his arms in disbelief, looking around frantically. How could someone go missing in thirty seconds?

He needed his car. The ferocity of his movements was working against him, the tire iron springing from his grip while he tried forcing the spent tire off the rim. It wasn't until the second try that he made any progress, and his small fraction of awareness knew he was moving too slowly. Sam was disappearing farther by the second. This was going to be the end of it, he wouldn't see Sam for another year again, or more -

He forced himself to drop the tire iron, to inhale a deep, shaky breath. The rain was beginning to stick the shirt to his shoulders.

Dean was going to get Sam back, but if he was gone then he was gone, and panicking wasn't going to help anyone in the moment. His instincts took over, and with a new purpose he took up the cold tire iron again in surer hands; in true professional fashion the old rubber was peeled away from the rim like an orange he wanted for breakfast. Not until the metal rim kissed the asphalt, naked in the rain, did he let himself feel anything else. He wiped a rivulet of rain water falling down his forehead and huffed. He took up the bottle of shampoo, flipped the cap.

Dean squeezed the soap over the rim of the new tire. The rain pockmarked the shampoo where they met reminding Dean that he was up against a clock, quickening his pulse, but he quickly closed that door in his mind because it simply wasn't helpful. He took up the tire iron once more, then paused. He needed a second lever to work alongside the iron. He whipped his head around. When his eyes landed on the arm of the jack, he was up and back in a second, but his worry was for naught - he was a fish back in its water, and he made quick work of the tire once more. The soap did its job exactly by letting the rubber slide passed the rim without a machine for extra muscle. He stood and allowed himself the moment of satisfaction. If one thing after another was going to go wrong on this trip then he would celebrate the one that went right. He realized then that he has really spent more time than not worrying while they'd been on the road and here he was, feeling glad over a fixed tire; all the while, he'd been too concerned about keeping Sam in the clear to pay attention to where he was.

The warmth of satisfaction drained away with the rain that was falling from his body. He couldn't feel the cold any longer, just the sensation of the drops hitting his skin, and he was back to work. He planted the new tire back on the car and screwed it in place as he'd done hundreds of times back in Lyon and beyond, trying to keep his mind from wandering while he fed his quarters to the air compressor in the wall. The Chevron car mascots smiled at him with their large, judgmental eyes.

Sam wouldn't have a good goddamn clue where he was going in this town - and Dean knew that because he had no idea either, where anything would be, if there were any places open to begin with. Dean huffed out in frustration, sending out the thought from his brain. The compressor ate the quarters and was satisfied, winding up to the familiar scream of machinery Dean was accustomed to. He pulled the hose from the wall and sped back to the tire.

Sam had enough sense, Dean hoped, to find shelter in a storm, but that was betrayed by the fact that he used to believe Sam also had the sense not to run away in a strange city. He wondered if there was a park nearby, if they had passed one on the road while he was busy being angry about…money. His chest seized. He reckoned when this was all over that would be one more thing to apologize over. He also wondered when he would quit giving himself things to apologize for.

He fit the hose into the tire and squeezed the trigger, felt the air rush into the tire through while he tried not to think about the dread growing on his shoulders that each passing second was another step Sam took away from him. When finally the pressure dial took notice of the air that was building in the tire, on instinct Dean released the jack and eased the tire back to the ground, though it was the same moment an awful, screaming noise split the air above his head, pulling Dean back to the world in a jolt of shock. The jack's arm twisted too quickly in his grip. The car fell from its height too quickly, the tire letting go of the compressor hose. It hissed like a hundred cats in Dean's grip while he tried to get his wits. A siren was playing from the tops of every telephone pole in town. The tornado siren.

The franticness Dean was keeping in its cage broke away to take up place in his throat, almost enough to make him gag, stealing his breath. In the next moments that passed the sirens traveled the range of deep bass back into the shrill, screaming heights. Dean had of course heard the bizarreness of storm sirens before but this had been the first time - and would be the last - that anyone he cared about was out in it. Sam must be…terrified, and that thought punched him in the stomach harder than anything had in a while. He pounded the side of the car again and again with the side of his fist, a third and fourth time, cursing himself and everything else, and the storm, and their father, and the life they had to live. He came to rest, finally. The monstrous sound of the sirens came back to his ears while he planted his head against the car to rest in the newly made dent of his anger. Rain slid down his scalp and fell off his chin. His shirt, his pants, too, might as well have been a second skin by that point, plastered to his skin from the rain. He opened his eyes.

Something was under their car. It was round in shape but seemed cinched in the middle. A moment of thought passed and Dean wondered if he'd ran something over, but no, he would have seen it before when he was working on the tire. Had it…fallen, from underneath? His brow furrowed, and he reached.

It was solid in his hand, something that resembled a hobo's sack, a piece of fabric wrapped around something and tied off with a piece of rope, and, he noticed, dry. The shape of it was similar to River's charm but smaller. This one fit snuggly in the palm of his hand, the brown canvas fabric stiff where it was pulled tightly over its contents. The cable tying it off was unremarkable.

Confusion blazed in his thoughts while he ran his thumb over the canvas. River had given him two charms - the red one, meant for the witches in Oklahoma, and the purple one, that had plagued him from the start. Where had this one come from? What was it doing under their car?

The compressor began sputtering in the dying way that said Dean was almost out of time, the sirens sharing nearly the same message. He swallowed and pushed a hard hand across his eyes to clear out the dripping water, though a fresh wave of rain slapped against him in the gusting wind, the lights at the pumps flashing more intensely than before. The compressor died finally and cut the air off in his hand, but he'd made it just in time, tossing the nozzle away from him to take care of the jack. He hurriedly gathered their things and chucked them in the backseat - those could be worried about later. He climbed behind the wheel, soaking the seat immediately, and turned over the engine. The radio came to life in a ghastly murmur of static and voices, distended and haunting in their sounds. Dean knew immediately that this wasn't any broadcast on the air. The light behind the dial began pulsing as though in confirmation. He shoved a finger onto the power button, the light dying amicably as the voices drained away.

The petulant Chevron cars smiled back at Dean from the side of the building. They caught his gaze for a fraction of a second.

"Fuck you," Dean spat.

He forced the transmission into Reverse, then Drive, not bothering with his belt, his blinkers, or even a glance for traffic as he sped back onto the road. A guess was only going to take him so far but a guess was all he had. Now if he could just find it.

He did notice, however, as he took a corner already a block down the road, the twin yellow headlights of a car in his rearview as it pulled into the Chevron station after him. So someone else was stupid enough to be out in the storm. He pressed harder on the gas pedal.


	31. October 31st, 2005 - 2 AM

_October 31st, 2005_

_2 AM_

_Blood will always be warm but yours is on fire, just like your face. And the inside of your mouth._

_Fire similar to what you had found at the bottom of celebratory shots your friends bought you. Somewhere along the way those turned from celebratory to preventative._

_And so went the night till it slipped your mind that there were worries to be had and dooms to look out for. Then you forgot you had secrets still hidden under your driver's seat, and your coat pocket, and your backpack. Then too where your keys were._

_Alcohol only stuck around for so long, though, and as its company and yours disappeared over the course of the night, your guilts have come back one after the other. Especially now as you lay, a furnace, on top of your sheets beside an alarm clock reading 2:01 AM, when your eyes are projectors against the white ceiling, your own hellish slideshow cutting in and out over the spinning ceiling fan. Why did you never write him back? What had ever convinced you not to? And when you had to change your number, and you never gave it to him…_

_Drunkenly, but not without that practiced silence, you pull open your nightstand drawer and lift out a lone photograph - the only one in the entirety of your photos that you've allowed inside the house, for the time when looking at the hard stuff was easier than drinking it. It's one of your favorites, of your smiling brother over-taken by a solar flare from the review mirror. Probably ten miles out of Lyon, if that, totally unawares. _

_It would seem your only company for the night is nostalgia, who is never far at all from its companion, loneliness. And so you eventually fall asleep feeling drunk in more ways than one. The creased photo falls to the floor. For a short while you sleep soundly, content in the state you've put yourself in._

_Until your eyes slam open, the moment you've been waiting for announcing its arrival with a bang from somewhere in your house, and you're sobered instantly._


	32. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

_Get Stuck in Sweetwater!_

Water droplets soaked into **Sam's **shoulders from the ends of his hair while he stared up at the billboard. It was an old one, he could tell, the idyllic font and colors now sun-bleached, and the family looked no better, a bunch of folks whose car was smoking behind them while they smiled, like nothing better could have happened to them than getting stranded in Tennessee.

A shiver ran through Sam's body, tearing his focus away from the world and back inward. He'd been holding them off while he walked but standing still made it hard, and he didn't want to believe it but the rain really was falling faster by the minute, blowing in the wind like BBs into the side of his face. He hadn't been following the road for longer than fifteen minutes, but what chilled him more than the cold rain had been the storm sirens coming from every direction. They'd hadn't been on for long but it was enough, though. Proof of his ignorance, or his stubbornness, however a person wanted to describe it. And he would accept it, that he'd fucked up, that he'd put them here in Sweetwater, and he'd accept the responsibility of Dean's tire and the rainwater that was soaking into his clothes, but he wouldn't accept this was because of ghosts. And he wouldn't believe what he was seeing, though it was in front of eyes - that the storm clouds had began looking suspiciously like a face, its 'eyes' closed. For now.

He started walking again, leaving the billboard behind him. He would go…he didn't know. Where his feet took him. That's where. He might not have had his own phone any longer but Dean hadn't taken his money, and if he spent smart it could take him…somewhere. But he wasn't foolish, and neither was he impatient. He knew the priorities that were in front of him. One of which was to get inside someplace without a locked door or a CLOSED sign. The other, was to destroy this charm.

It sat in his pocket like an anchor, weighing just as much. He felt sick just touching it and had almost passed it up, too, but once Dean had his back to him and gone back to work on the tire, it was a sudden understanding in Sam's chest that he had to do something with it. Maybe as some kind of attempt at getting back at his brother, or maybe a simple fight against the concept of his other world itself, though whichever it was the outcome would be the same, and he'd be glad. He'd seen Dean throw it in every direction, and watched it always reappear back in his hand, like it had a sort of mind of its own, yet there it sat, a disgusting lump in his hoodie. That could be why it felt so slimy to Sam, he thought, because he couldn't predict it, didn't understand it. Wanted even less to be around it. Like it was bomb that could go off without warning.

So he would get rid of it himself, since Dean couldn't do it himself. The only problem was, he couldn't decide how to do it. If he tossed the charm in the irrigation ditch it would probably just float away, full pf rain water. Forcing it in the bin wouldn't do a thing besides send it to the dump, and he didn't want it buried, he wanted it _gone_. Obviously couldn't set it on fire. So he'd hold on to it, he reasoned, till he could find something better. Like a fireplace. Now to just find a fire in a rainstorm. He looked up at the face in the storm clouds, met the place its eyes would be, if he was willing to believe it had eyes in the first place, and if he would buy that they looked to be opening. He walked faster, bringing his shoulders to his ears.

The more steps he took the more he thought the wind was hiding something. Covering something up, like a kid plugged their ears to keep from hearing something. Like the tide, the wind had its own ebb and flow, and it was in these low places Sam heard not only his own footsteps nor the storm sirens, but something more…hypnotizing. The pieces of sound he could hear were lyrical, high-pitched, and incessant, before the wind swallowed them again. The music played to some deeper part of his memory. It was a moment before he realized he had pointed himself in its direction, and another before he realized why it was so familiar. It was almost like it was coming from -

Sam came around the cover of the roadside brush and found yet another white banner, strung overhead between two trees and an opening in the fence

_'Bring the family to the fair grounds to celebrate the Cantaloupe Festival!'_

Of course, it was carnival music. Somehow the banner hadn't been ripped to shreds in the wind, but it was trying. Nonetheless, it was a spot of white in the pandemonium. The edge snapped once in the wind before a brief respite, as if in beckon. It was in this ebb that Sam heard it again, the music. It was coming from the festival. He walked on, through the gate and under the banner, hands in his sweater pocket despite the charm.

It was like stepping into another world, or like simply walking inside out of the rain and wind. Behind him even the storm sirens died, fading in the background like a passing train. The surrounding area seemed to Sam like some kind of farm ground, the air holding the soft smell of wet hay Sam always associated with Lyon and the farms he would pass on his way to Claudia's house, but he didn't feel compelled to leave, only to enjoy himself. As he walked on, passing the empty attractions and food carts Sam could see a Ferris wheel peeking out from over abandoned booths and tents, the rides with their dead lights, felt the stillness of the air that seemed to be holding its breath. He felt something in that air, a pressure, a tingle against his wet skin. For a moment he likened it to a fish inside its bowl, or pulling the covers over his head. He followed the web of paths between stalls and rides and booths, held like a dog by the leash of this bizarreness - place meant to overflow with life and energy was sitting dead around him. But his attention was stolen once again by the lone sound in this place, the music, and its source.

He stopped in his tracks. Before him the merry-go-round - the only alive thing he'd come across - spun its slow circle, and he caught the cold, plasticine eye of the horses, zebras, unicorns that passed and passed and passed. It crossed Sam's mind that he shouldn't be staring, that he had come across something strangely private, for some reason, though there wasn't another soul here. Everyone else was sane enough to get out of the storm. The plucky carnival music held him in place, though. Asking him to stay a while, it seemed.

A voice from his side. "I find the music almost…happy, myself."

Sam jumped at the words. He turned to look. Next to him stood an old woman with dark skin, bent in half at the middle so she was hunched. Over her head she wore scarves on top of more scarves, each full of colors and patterns and small bells on the fringe that _tinked_ when she turned to look back at Sam. A smile was on her weathered face that Sam didn't return, taking a step backwards, instead. "Don't you think?"

"I - happy?" Sam sparred a glance back to the spinning ride. "No, that's not the word I'd use."

"Oh? What would you say, then?" Her voice was smooth but deep, in the way Sam pictured old grandmothers' voices should sound like.

He looked back the ride. "Loud."

He heard the woman laugh softly to herself. "I suppose I can see that. The silence is less welcoming I find. So I've left this one turned on, for some company."

"_You've _left this one on?" He looked back down to the woman. "Why aren't you gone? Inside somewhere?"

"Why aren't _you_, dear?" She met Sam's eye, winked one at him. "This is my festival, after all. Someone needs to stay behind with it. Come with me, son, let us get out of this weather. The mouth, it's nearly open, and I would rather be inside when the time comes."

Sam watched her turn away from the merry-go-round, but not before throwing up her hand, a wave like she was shooing away a fly, and the ride went silent, dark like all the rest. In this new quiet that followed Sam felt deafened. And afraid. He stared on as the woman moved along the path, noticed that though her scarves were dragging along the dirt that they weren't dirty. He couldn't see her feet underneath her many layers, and too that she wasn't walking so much as she was…sliding. Pushing herself along with her cane, as though it was a paddle and she the boat. A drop of water slid down the length of a tendril of his hair and hit the tip of his nose.

"Come along, Samuel, you'll catch your death out here."

His eyes flashed at the mention of his name, but followed without another word.

He was led to a tent made of a rich purple-colored canvas staked to the ground at its four corners. The woman used her cane to part the thin curtain which, detailed with a golden thread in complicated patterns, acted as the door, revealing a soft yellow glow of a light Sam couldn't find. She stepped aside to let Sam inside first. She urged him on with a nod and the same soft grin still on her face. And so he walked through. Ducking to miss the golden fringe of the curtain.

The outside light died behind them when the woman dropped the curtain after them. While his eyes adjusted and the yellow glow filled in the details of the tent, he asked, "How do you know my name?"

"It's on your face, dear. You mean you don't know mine? Look at my face."

He did. In the brief moment he studied her in the faint light, a word crept from behind the corners of his thoughts and spoke to him simply, like he was talking to himself, recalling something he'd always known.

"Miriam," he said, then gaped at himself. The woman winked once again and walked passed.

He followed the floating woman deeper, and through one more curtain, this one made of beads that clinked pleasantly behind them.

"Ivan," the woman called out. "I've come back!"

It seemed the tent was much deeper than Sam was able to tell from the outside. The yellow glow Sam was seeing by was actually many torch lights, not light bulbs, but what looked like stones set on the end of the sticks. Sam guessed they were specially made, perhaps small LED lights inside for aesthetic. They passed through a large main room where a table sat in the center. Its centerpiece was the large reflective dome of a crystal. The glass gleamed like it were waiting, watching Sam as they passed, but they did not sit. Another curtain, another torch light. Behind this one, though, was a man, sat at a small table underneath a torch with a newspaper in his hands.

He was a thick man with a heavy black mustache and slicked back hair, who fixed his deep eyes on Sam over the corner of his paper. He was in a sleeveless shirt tucked into his jeans and seemed too clean to be the type who worked at a carnival, but the whole place with filled with inconsistencies so far. Like how these shelves could be hanging from the walls of a tent, let alone hear the sound of the wind.

"I've made a friend, Ivan, this is Samuel." She reached a slender hand out of her scarves and gave a soft few pats to Sam's shoulder, smiling proudly. "But he goes by Sam." The man proved himself the gruff sort, however, declining his head in a short nod without speaking a word.

"He's quiet," Miriam offered in answer. "But smart, and sweet to his mother. Don't mind him, though, he's used to hunters coming into places like this." She went to his side at the table and put a soft peck on Ivan's cheek after he offered it up. Sam stood still, entirely aware of his hands but not sure where to put them. Miriam slid to the other side of the table and took up a seat.

"His mother?"

"Of course," Miriam said, smiling at Sam. "I have many children."

Sam looked away, crossing his arms over himself. "I'm…not a hunter," he said. He was already wary of it, but now bristled at the word, it's implications.

"Please dear, it's written there next to your name." Her face gave a relieved sort of grimace as she settled into her chair. The cane had been deposited next to her, hanging from the edge of the table by the handle.

"Well, my young friend, tell me about this charm."


	33. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

The heater was at last blowing warm air, but anything against **Dean's **rain-slick skin felt like ice. His hands shook while he gripped the rubber of the steering wheel, taking himself up and down each street he crossed with an unsafe speed, and he'd seen nothing, nobody, not even a fucking dog. Sweetwater had been dipped in a coating of sludge. Gray clouds, gray roads, gray buildings. The plots of grass in front of the few homes he crossed even looked washed out, under-saturated. There wasn't a car on the road with him. And Sam wasn't to be found.

Dean's instinct had of course been to try this Cantaloupe Festival. But only if he could find the fucking thing. He'd passed banners at every intersection, '_Bring the family to the fair grounds to celebrate the Cantaloupe Festival!_', almost mocking him with its cheeriness, each one white and like a whip in the wind, but they must have been playing off the common sense of the locals. Forget asking directions.

He flexed his shaking hands and felt the flame of his anger blaze with each corner he turned, feeling more and more lost, like he were getting farther from the fairgrounds rather than closer. It reached a flash in his throat and he punched the steering wheel. The horn released a staccato into the rain. It was a lonely sound.

_Okay, okay_. He forced a stiff hand off the wheel and swiped at the drops of water on his face from the soaked ends of his hair. Deep into his chest, Dean felt his breath stretch his lungs and pop his back, letting it out slowly. _This is good, the town being deserted is good_. It stood to reason, in the moment, that if there wasn't a sea of people for Sam to hide in, that he _couldn't_ hide. Dean should be able to pick Sam out amongst this gray backdrop the world had taken on. The spot of light in this storm. He just had to find the fucking fair grounds. With renewed focus, Dean studied the world through the windshield.

He had just adjusted the speed of the windshield wipers to their highest setting when he was thrown backwards against the seat, the back of his head meeting the corner of the rest sharply. The wrenching sound of metal catching against metal for a moment outperformed the noise of storm. Instinctively Dean's grip was locked against the wheel, bracing himself. After the intense moment passed and the car settled, Dean looked about himself. He hadn't noticed the headlights approaching from behind but there they were, almost on top of his back bumper. Dean took in a hiss of breath passed a new pain in his neck, coming back to the world, while the intense headlights of the other car backed up - and rushed towards him again. The collision tossed Dean a second time, but this time, he only got mad.

Before they had a third chance Dean pressed the gas and took himself through a stoplight, his mind no longer giving any heed to speed limits or the weather. A glance in the mirror proved that neither did this new friend. The rain on the road sprayed behind his tires, coating the chaser. Dean took a corner; the car followed. Another turn, and still, there was the other driver, both of their wheels screaming against the asphalt. A spare train of thought announced that Dean had been on this road already in the search for Sam and grew angry at being made to spin circles around this town. But it was this same place of his attention that latched onto a shape in the corner of his vision - there, walking the sidewalk of Sweetwater's main drag that seemed suspiciously human shaped. His head snapped towards it, forgetting for a split second the danger behind him. "Sam?"

The other driver met Dean's bumper for a third time - hard, at this new speed - and Dean fishtailed, as though he had driven over a bed of ice. But soon enough he had no thought for which way he was facing or even for the attacker. His front tires slammed into the curb, and when the car settled Dean found himself halfway on the sidewalk.

A moment stretched on towards endlessness. The whirl of the heater lay atop a new ringing that had come to Dean's ear, while this tinnitus washed out any noise of the outside world. He had lost track of his hands, felt as though he really might be floating, or had died, perhaps, but that couldn't be right - a fresh ache pulsed in his temple, pulling his leash to reality like a dog who had gone too far, and Dean was back in the world. He gasped, let it out as a hiss, putting a shaking finger to his head. It came away clean, though that wasn't his last worry. He fumbled to press the release on his seatbelt.

A new explosion of noise from his left, a fresh, petrifying wave of iced wind, and before he could react Dean was being pulled from the car. The rain fell fast into his eyes but he didn't blink it away, pounding at the hands on his shirt but finding no purchase. He was pulled to his unsteady feet. The hands gripping his shirt shoved, and suddenly Dean was pinned to the side of his own car.

This shadow in front of him was that of a man. Similar in height to Dean but much more slender, and definitely one Dean had never seen before in his life. Even through the rain, this much Dean could tell: the man was strong, the man was angry, and he had the upper hand.

"Finally got you, fucker. Where is River?" the man growled through clenched teeth.

—

**Sam **found himself going still, staring at the smiling face of this woman who knew more than was comfortable. First it was his name, and now -

"What charm?"

"The charm that beats like a second heart in your pocket, Sam."

Ivan reappeared in the room with his hands full of things Sam couldn't see in the low light. As he set up though, Sam picked out the shapes and confirmed he was watching Ivan light a stick of incense. Just as the tip caught, hissing slightly, and Ivan blew out of the flame. Drenched back in the glow of the lanterns on the wall, Sam watched the ghostly layers of smoke drift up and away. Ivan disappeared again after Miriam offered him another matronly nod.

"And it stinks up the room. It's a strong one, complicated."

"What?"

"Your charm, there. I could smell it in the air the moment you entered my carnival. And I'm betting to say that it's been causing you problems."

Sam swallowed, darted his eyes around the room. A part of his brain wondered at the torches on the wall again and how they flicked like a tiny flame was trapped in each one. They cast the floating smoke of the incense in a pulsing sort of light, like it were beating, alive. The smell filled Sam's lungs like any kind of cigarette smoke, and he waved a quick hand through the air to clear it away. "_Your_ carnival."

"My carnival. Unofficially, of course."

"So where is everybody, then?"

"Gone," Miriam offered simply, shifting to sit back in her chair. "There's an awful storm out there, after all."

"And you didn't want to…go with them?"

"Go with them? Why? Someone has to protect the carnival. And in this kind of storm there's only one in our little family who can do that."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "And what kind of storm is that," he said, though he believed he knew Miriam's answer before she opened her mouth.

Miriam let go of a soft sigh, turning her gaze inward. "When I was a girl, learning under my own grandmother, she spoke of something like this as, 'hasira ya roho', which in your language comes out as 'the anger of the spirits'. But she herself hadn't seen one, nor her teacher. Yet, here I am, and here you are."

Sam's head fell back against the chair to stare at the ceiling and trailing dregs of the incense smoke disappearing in the darkness. The coals of his frustration churned again; they apparently hadn't burned themselves out, yet. He let out a rueful huff of a laugh. "A ghost storm."

"What's that, boy?"

"You're as deranged as the rest of them." He brought his head back forward, stared at Miriam's darker face in the dark room.

But Miriam only nodded in agreement, her mouth upturned into a frown. "It's true, I overestimated my knowledge. It was all I could do, in the end, to _try _to protect the festival, but even that isn't certain in this storm. So I asked my family to leave. At least - " Miriam took in a deep breath then sighed, letting her shoulders go along with it. "I can join my ancestors knowing they made it away safely, and tried my hardest to the very end."

She smiled at Sam again. He didn't return it. This was going to be his life, he supposed, in that moment. Running until he met the next crazy person, the next monster. If it wasn't his brother, it was this woman. And if it wasn't her, then it would be people like Jameson. And when there were no more people to run into, he would get caught in storms, like this one, one after the other till his legs fell off. It would be endless: it would be dizzying. What point was there in it anymore?

_Where am I going?_

"Clear your head, my friend," Miriam said. It was her turn to wave her hand through the air, catching, not the smoke of the incense, but something perhaps that only she was seeing. Sam jerked back on instinct. Her frowning eyes were on his while she pushed aside…whatever it was. "You have so much inside," she said while she waved, her voice full of earnestness and her scarves fluttering at her wrist. "You must be running out of room."

Sam leapt from his seat. The chair caught the floor and clamored to the ground behind him as Miriam stared up at him, eyes wide in surprise. Sam's fingers were shaking, he knew, almost in time with his racing heart. Anyone else might have thought the mysterious inside of the tent was alluring but suddenly Sam felt like he was in a hell, in the middle of a fire, with anywhere other than here to be. He was breathing fast, holding Miriam's stare with his own furious one, till Ivan came out from the corner of some hidden darkness to stand behind Miriam, his arms crossed. When Sam looked he saw a protectiveness in Ivan's eyes.

"I'm not your friend," was all Sam could say.

Miriam let her hand fall. "Not with this attitude you aren't." She spared a glance behind for her grandson and raised a calm hand. Ivan gave a silent, stone-faced nod and backed away, but not into the darkness, choosing instead a place where he knew Sam could still see him. "We don't have to be friends, then, Sam, we'll keep it purely business. Show me this charm that plagues you."


	34. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

The man clenched his hands harder on **Dean's **shirt and shoved again. The jolt of the second impact seemed instead to solidify Dean, show him exactly where his feet were, and all at once his vision cleared and the pulse of pain in his head was a distant feeling. In his focus he saw through the rainwater falling in his eyes and spent the next blink taking stock of the man.

He was of similar height to Dean himself, with short dark hair that led into a sparse beard, slick and plastered to his skin and long face in the weather. His bared teeth weren't the healthiest looking shade of yellow but what shined greatest in the gloom were the man's eyes. They were, if Dean wasn't kidding himself, glowing, an almost dizzying combination of bloodshot whites and an iridescent iris. Dean felt the slightest pulse of the man's muscles where they pinned his chest, no doubt priming himself to give third throw, but Dean was waiting for it; he knew that in this position there wasn't a push without the slight pull that came first, the goading of the muscles before they released their collected power. It was in this fraction of a second that Dean brought up his boot, planted it against the man's stomach, and gave a shove of his own. Without looking Dean felt the man's iron grip come free of his shirt, and knew he was free.

It wasn't what the attacker had expected to happen, but nonetheless he was back on his feet fast. Dean crouched, smiling feverishly, and felt the wave of fight fill his body, overtaking the cold rain, rushing over the wind. He pushed off the side of his car and sprinted at the man.

He dodged Dean's swinging right hook at the last possible moment with a step backwards, and fell to the ground in the next, Dean's follow-up swing whiffing through the air. The man pushed up from the ground. He had his open hand out towards Dean's stomach. But Dean used his momentum to make a spin to the right, and the man stumbled instead when he didn't meet his purchase. Using his shoulder, Dean rushed a second time, finally colliding with the man's back, sending him spilling to the ground.

While the man tried to pick himself up Dean welled with the small victory, rolling his neck while he made a slow approach. This wasn't the end; it always took more than one throw to the ground before he beat someone. That didn't make it feel any less satisfying, though.

A few paces away, Dean planted his feet once more, taking up a guarded stance. "Now, who the _fuck _\- "

The man rolled to his back on the soaked ground, cutting Dean off with a pointed finger and a shout, words Dean had neither the time or understanding to decipher.

Like he were thrown into a freezing river, a fierce cold came over Dean's entire body like water, choking off not only his words but his air, of which in this strangled state his body was hungry for. He too felt held in place, like he had become a figure of ice, only able to look on while the man came to his feet, finger still pointed, and the rain fell on his skin. If he were able to move even a fraction, Dean's teeth would be shivering.

"You won't kill me too, you - _monster_." The man glowered at Dean over his finger, taking a wary step closer. "My friends weren't enough for you? For River?"

With each approaching footfall the picture of the man seemed to glitter through the raindrops until he was no more than a few feet away, and Dean realized it was in fact the other way around; a light, similar to what Dean had seen in the man's eyes, becoming slightly different colors with each shift of his body, coming off of the man's outreached hand like the evaporating rain off of a hot road. The flitting light bounced off the drops of rain and the slick ground, the man's wet face and clothing. The realization met Dean's bones, finding his core: this man was a witch. Beyond the cold Dean felt the tingle of an ache in his chest. He needed air.

The man met Dean's face, his shimmering finger no more than an inch away from Dean's chest, lighting them from below like they were in a horror film. Dean didn't want to think about what might happen if he touched him, what his magic might do. Pulling back was impossible.

This man seemed more than content to keep this hold on Dean for as long as he needed if his grin meant anything, alongside a new calm in his discerning eyes. He looked Dean up and down, his jaw tight, his mouth thin. When he spoke his tone may sounded patient - bored, even - but Dean heard the threat that lived inside the words themselves. "Those were my friends, you know. In Oklahoma. The ones who are _dead_ now." His mouth flickered in and out of a scowl. Dean took that to say the witch was having a hard checking his anger. "And you thought you'd trick them and run away? It was a good thing I put the tracking charm on your car when I did. They told me not to bother but River had burned us before already. I might've had to chase you around the country but you aren't going anywhere now. Where. Is. River?"

The tickle in Dean's chest was evolving into the deep kind, beginning to pull on his stomach, asking for air. He was trapped, caged and nailed to the ground. Panic rose in his chest. His heartbeat quickened, but the irony was not lost on him - he was losing air, then panicking about it, so his heart raced, stealing more oxygen.

Apparently, the man didn't like Dean's silence. Another crack appeared in his facade, another scowl crossing his face, before he pulled back and swung a fist into Dean's gut. The rest of his air was forced out at that moment. Dean felt the impact like a whip, his freezing body unable to move and absorb the blow.

He gasped on instinct and felt the air come back into his body, filling him back to life like a used balloon. It was almost too sweet but for a second he let himself feel the relief of having his breath, sucking it in and heaving it out.

"Talk," the man spat.

At which, Dean discovered he could do so again. "They're…dead? Who…the fuck…are you?"

"Try again." The ever changing light coming off his hand changed, though Dean couldn't tell how exactly. Maybe in brightness. His breathing was finally slowing down.

"You followed us," said Dean. "I don't have a clue who you are, but I didn't kill your friends."

"Of course you didn't. It was that bitch, River. We thought they could trust her again, and here we are."

Despite the rest of his expression the man's eyes clenched each time he became angry, Dean was noticing, now that he had the brainpower for focusing. The light on his hand would change, too. Becoming a stronger red color, less of a rainbow. More of a vibrant color, if Dean had to call it anything.

Actually, if he had to call it anything, he would call it dangerous. He needed to put this mouse in its trap and fast. Needed to break out of this ice that was beginning to fight its way back inside.

"Listen," said Dean, "I had nothing to do with that charm, and where River is, your guess is as good as mine. Can't you do some fucking spell to find that out for yourself? Or do you just prefer fighting strangers in the street?"

The light on the witch's hand flickered in and out of red for a moment as he spoke. "If I could find her on my own, I would. But you're in the middle of this, whether you like it or not. My friends are dead because of the spell that you delivered, Winchester."

Dean's eyes widened slightly. The man smirked. "You're famous, kid. Or, your father is, at least. Nothing but a fucking hunter, killing whoever you like. But witches are convenient when you need something from them."

"Listen, River double-crossed me, too. I was just the delivery boy, to pay her back for a charm of my own. But it was bullshit. Didn't protect me or…" _My brother,_ nearly slipped from his mouth. He wouldn't give the universe any more chances to put Sam in danger. He'd done that enough. "Anything," he finished. "We're after the same person, you have to trust me. Let me go and we can find her. We can make her pay."

Dean, for all of the anger he felt towards River, knew he and this man had different ideas of how they wanted to make her pay. Killing River wasn't going to make any of this any better, Dean believed. At the most, he only wanted to make living…inconvenient, for River. But this man was out for something different. The wind blew; the rain fell; the witch's eyes narrowed on Dean's after a moment, considering.

"You have no charm with you," he said after a moment. "You're lying."

"Oh trust me, I wish I were lying. Whatever River did to this charm, I can't get rid of it. It's nothing but shit luck."

"No, there's nothing here. I would feel it." His pointed finger began shaking in the air, and in a second the light vapor shifted color till Dean could hardly see it in the gray world around them. Dean would have shivered at the changing face of the witch. When next the man spoke his voice held a hint of mirth. "River is a dangerous witch. She must be put down. All she needs - " He reached a dripping finger to Dean's head, passed his vision. When his hand came back he held a single one of Dean's hair. In the encroaching ice over his body he didn't feel it being plucked. "Is a strand of hair and you're hers. So, I'll kill you, then your brother, and then I'll find River myself. Before she happens to anyone else."

Dean sparred a fraction of a second, contemplating if he'd heard this man right; but only a fraction of a second. Every captive muscle in his body jumped into action. The blood in his veins sped through his heart, and he knew if he could have burst into crazy magic vapor in that moment too, evaporate every raindrop on his body, join the wind in a race, he would have. He may not have had magic on these terms but he had intent, and that was already three-quarters of the ingredients. Dean snapped his head forward with all he had. He met the witch's face with his brow. He felt his own power push out the tendrils of ice across his skin all at once, bursting out of the witch's cage.

The witch flew backwards through the air for a second time. Dean wouldn't allow him back on his feet. He fisted the man's shirt and met him on the ground, straddling him, pinning him against the wet ground. It no longer mattered where they were, or what they were saying; everything was wet and everything was raining, the wind would carry everything away. Nonetheless, this son of a bitch would never lay a finger on his brother.

"Stay - "

Crack.

"Away - "

Crack.

"From - "

Crack.

"Sam - "

Dean let loose a final swing. The witch's head fell limp to the side, blood escaping in a trickle from his nose to meet the rain on the ground, disappearing. He sat for a moment, gulping the air while yet the fire still burned in his chest, though after a moment the cool rain became a welcome feeling as it shifted him back into focus, where he could have a thought other than putting this bastard in the ground. He would never touch Sam. But Dean wasn't a killer. By the time the witch woke up, Dean promised, he and Sam would be long gone, and without his damned tracking charm he would never find them again. Dean came back to his feet, resolute, and walked back to his car where it sat still running on the curb, the witch's own vehicle a few feet behind in the middle of the road. Dean's bumper was dented, but there was no smoke. It would drive them away from this place. Dean pressed the gas and sped down the street with renewed purpose.

—

_The rain hadn't let up as time passed, hitting __**Mason's **__body in a sickening, inconsistent rhythm, filling the recesses of his eyes till it spilled down his cheeks. His chest, which had at first been a slow metronome of rising and falling, hadn't filled with new air, his body succumbing to the well-placed attacks on his head. And while his brain would remain alive for a few moments, granted, as time passed it would begin to slowly asphyxiate. The storm would eventually reach its head and blow him away, like any kind of broken tree limb or stray lawn furniture._

_Though, it wouldn't get the chance._

_The small flame began as a small spark but fed itself on the fibers of his clothing drenched though they were, and in a moment the flame burned through Mason's chest pocket till it ate into the heart of the spell nestled there. The magic's conditions had been met. The core of the spell caught like a gas tank, spitting sparks like a firecracker. Mason's cold eyes flew open. He sat up in a rush, gasping, sucking in the cold, wet air. In the next moment he was retching, his body desperate to eject the waste. The second half of his spell came up from his stomach and out of his mouth, the small satchel, no larger than a pebble, but just as black. The singed carbon was being erased by the rain, fading off in a black trail as it ran over the asphalt. The red edges of his burning coat died out. He fell back on the road and reached a shaking hand to his pocket, discarding those remains inside as well. _

_He'd come to do a job - find the reason why his friends had to die so horribly. He stared at the blackening clouds for a moment catching his air, before bringing his other hand up, blotting out the sky. In his pinched fingers was a strand of dark hair, the white nub of the follicle still hanging on at the end. _

_And he was going to do it._


	35. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

Miriam sat, staring at the velvet charm, deep in thought. Ten minutes may have passed, or it may have been twenty - without a clock or a view of the sky **Sam **was feeling mysteriously timeless. Despite his apprehensiveness to pull out the charm, and more so to even talk of it, somewhere inside the rage he felt towards the entire institution there was a small voice that said to trust her judgment. He'd explained all he knew and that she shouldn't touch it, that it might run if she did, to which she gave a discerning frown but nodded, using instead some talent of intuition as she ran her hands through the air around it. "It smells like the storm," she'd said at one point, as if that meant anything. Now, while he sat in Miriam's studiousness and watched this aged woman taste the air with her hands, he wondered if that small voice in his head had been _hers_, if she'd done something similar to how she'd learned his name, or if he was slipping into the same crazy as the rest of them.

"You said this would run," Miriam said finally. "What exactly did you mean by that?"

"I told you that already, remember?"

"Humor an old lady."

Sam sat up and cleared his throat, which was sore from his anger and not talking for a time. "It apparently has some way of knowing when it's - " It was such an absurdity to Sam that he almost didn't want to say the words. He let out a derisive laugh, went on anyway, "It knows when it's in danger. I don't really get it, but…I've seen it happen. I would show you, but I can't guarantee where it will go." He recalled his brother's outburst at the Chevron, and then the fact that he had left him there without a second word. He pushed the memory away before he thought too deeply about it. Dean deserved it anyway, the abandonment. Not like Sam was going to be gone forever, anyway.

Miriam nodded to herself, still staring at the charm. She'd dropped her hands a moment and Sam relaxed his shoulders a measure. Some part of him believed that if a witch's hands weren't waving around they weren't a danger. Another part didn't know whether or not that was actually a fact.

"Where did you come about this?" she asked.

Sam swiped at his nose. "It's actually, uh, my dumb brother's." For the next moment he took her through all he knew, but he did leave out Dean's trickery, choosing instead the facts as they were important to the charm, and not the betrayal he felt anew like the return of the tide. How it had come from his guidance-councilor-who-was-also-a-witch in Mississippi; it was supposed to be some sort of protection charm; it wasn't working for shit; no, he didn't know anything about Ms. Gonzalez; no, neither did he about what was inside the charm.

"My guess," Miriam said, "is that there's some piece of your brother inside this charm. Working as an anchor, of sorts. Do you know if that's true?"

Sam shook his head. "But how does it know to…go home? Go back to my brother?"

"How do any of us know when we're in danger? Magic is as alive as you or me. You can't cut it like you can the flesh but there's still a heart, in the center of all things."

"So there's a way to kill it, then."

Miriam considered, and shrugged. "In a way, boy, yes. But you don't throw a sword at a bird - you use a bow, and an arrow."

"Okay…" Sam stayed quiet for her to go on, but after a moment it was clear she wouldn't. "So we need a bow?"

Miriam opened her mouth but hesitated. She closed it in a smile and patted Sam's hand where it sat on the table. "No, Sam. You have a lot of opinions over this thing, magic, for knowing so little of it. Hunters typically have done their beloved research, I've found."

Sam sat straighter at that. "I know enough. And I said, I'm not a hunter."

"We're all hunters, Sam, but that's not all we are. Your father, perhaps? Grandfather?" She stared at Sam, expecting a hint towards an answer. "No matter, either way. The life of a hunter is in their blood, burning its life inside. And yours is…rife. Rich, I mean to say, as if it runs very deeply."

Sam's mouth had thinned despite himself. Somewhere inside of him the his anger was winning out against his smarts, subdued just enough though to know any outburst was a wrong idea, would be losing.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Sam said, practically vibrating.

Miriam ignored him. She said over her shoulder, "Ivan, dear, could you get the room ready? I left the urn on the altar."

"We can't burn it," Sam spoke up, watching Ivan after he nodded and slipped away from the room. "Dean already tried that, or so he says."

"Not for the charm, Sam, but you will see. Now - something to learn of this thing we call witchcraft - we could kill it, as you're so eager for, but we could also make it bloom. Water drowns the man but the fish call's it home. You say we can't cut it open, yet we have to know what is inside, do you understand?"

Sam turned it over in his mind for a second, humoring the old woman. "I guess so, yes."

"Which means that we must find a way to open it," she said carefully, spelling out each detail, "and learn what is inside."

—

**Dean's **car ate the broken yellow lines of the country road as he sped away from the heart of Sweetwater, wound nearer to the vestiges of the city. One of his axles had began letting out a high pitched whine, though he had neither the time to learn which axle it was nor to fix it. It still drove. That was all he needed, for now, and it got him away from that son of a bitch and out of the town, and he wasn't keen to stop, because he'd started seeing a pattern - these blowing white signs announcing the carnival strung across the streets like bridges, were actually pointing the way all along. There were different variations of the same sign that he hadn't noticed before in his hurry, giving him subtle directions that only a local might understand without having to spare a thought at it. Phrases like, 'Find fun turning right at the tactile building', and another, 'Follow the Primrose Road', in an obvious and infuriating nod to The Wizard of Oz. In the end, Dean didn't need to be a local. He noticed, too, that these banners were appearing at the exact places where his course needed to change, and they had finally led him to the outreaches of the city.

The witch's ice melted off his skin after a few minutes of driving, the heater in the car blowing full blast in Dean's eagerness. A billboard, 'Get stuck in Sweetwater!', flashed by, and Dean scoffed at the glimpse of the smiling family. "I think the fuck not." He found that the pedal still had room to be pressed, and did so.

In the next moment a break in the fence came into view around the bend, another white banner brandished across the top, an angel heralding the gate to heaven, and it couldn't have come at a better moment - he had started worrying; the farther away from town he'd driven the fewer and fewer the banners had become, and still no sign of his brother. But he knew, somehow - Sam had walked this road. Dean knew that with an assuredness that seemed to come from his soul. Sam was in the carnival. And Dean had finally found it.

The lines on the road veered suddenly as the car leapt, running into the other lane. Dean gasped in shock, only to find a noose around his throat, choking off his air. He released the wheel and tore around his throat - and found nothing, scratching instead at his own skin. Panic flared behind his eyes as he tried to breathe, watching the car weave over and over the yellow lines, the steering wheel beginning to spin wildly in front of him. He gripped the rubber with a tight hand to keep himself from crashing. As if trying to catch his breath and control the vehicle weren't enough, a new pressure overcame his body, like something giant had come and fallen on him, crushing every inch of his person and pinning him to the back of his seat. No longer could he do anything other than hold the wheel straight, though straight was directly towards a bank of trees that lined the roadside.

Though, the car began sputtering, and through the burn in his chest Dean felt it begin bucking back and forth, almost as if it were an animal fighting a leash. His front tires left the road and ran over its first few feet of soaked foliage. Dean had enough power to close his eyes, so he did, and tried to brace himself against the impending impact.

But it didn't come. His car offered one final buck, tossing Dean hard against his seatbelt, and came to rest. He threw open his eyes and saw the nose of the car a few measly inches from the dark, soaked trunk of a tree. The engine was dead. Out of the corner of his eye Dean could see the white banner a few yards away, rippling in the wind, and underneath it, the gate into the carnival.

He could also see something else. In his rearview mirror was the approaching dark shape of someone walking down the road towards Dean's vehicle. The rain pockmarking the back window obscured the figure, but the lights and colors Dean could see weren't lying. A bright glow was coming off of what looked to be the figure's hands that became brighter as it came closer, and Dean fought harder than he had ever before to get his breath back, understanding without a moment of doubt who this person was, and that he was back.

The figure walked closer, coming into greater focus all the while, drenched in a purple glow. The center of Dean's vision was beginning to cloud, and he knew that even as he tried against the bonds on his body that his racing heart was working against him. He pulled his focus into his head, imagining that it was gathered into a ball, and passed it down into his hand. Gradually his fingers relaxed enough to slip from the wheel. The seconds ticked by, and finally his hand came to rest on the release of the seatbelt. As the fog of his vision began transforming into dots and small explosions he released the buckle and fell from its hold, a tree axed passed its center, across the console and into the passenger seat. He knew what he was looking for, had packed it in secret and kept it that way, glad Sam never found it. Dean was biting into his tongue now, his body aching for breath, while his hands fell onto the cool grip of his handgun, stored under the passenger seat. He found the safety and felt the satisfying click when he switched it off.

The world outside the car was full with the witch's light, so close he had come, though in the moment Dean wasn't sure if this was part of suffocating or a product of whatever spell the witch was working. He split the ball of his focus in two and pushed himself up from the seat. He pointed the barrel of the gun towards the back windshield, the world darkening as he tried with his disappearing balance to aim the bullet. He didn't spare another second. The bullet burst from the gun and pierced the window, but first Dean noticed the sound, then the sudden absence of it when he was left behind in the blaring tinnitus, collapsing in a heap.

It was a second before he realized that he was able to collapse, and at once the air came without burden or resistance. The gun, though, was held tightly, while he gasped for his air back.

Relief was an emotion quickly dissolved as Dean's vision was crisping back into focus, the air in his lungs catching like the piston of an engine, propelling him out of the vehicle and into the rain. He ignored the freezing wind as he looked about. This son of a bitch had intervened in finding Sam twice now, threatened his life as many times, had put him in a vice like he were a prisoner. It was time to be done with him, and, when Dean came upon him kneeling in the road, heard him shouting over the wind in pain while holding a glowing hand in front of his face, he cocked the handgun again.

The witch looked up as Dean approached and tried to rise, but Dean fired again less discriminately, feeling the kickback, and the assuredness of his once-again steady hand in the face of a monster. The bullet struck the witch in the shoulder this time, throwing him backward. The glow of his hands disappeared.

Dean cocked the gun for a third time. Stepping up to the witch's side, he aimed the barrel down at his head. The witch didn't move, only stared while the rain streamed down the sides of his head, dripped off the tip of the gun. Dean paused. The witch's gaze never wavered while he tried to catch his breath.

Dean understood in the moment the power that he held, to end the witch's life with not so much as the pull of his finger, but it didn't empower him, instead gripped him at the heart. The idea of robbing the man his existence wasn't right. It was easier to see the man behind the manic with his magic fading, bleeding out in the rain. They were both just trying to find something in the storm.

Instead, Dean lowered the gun and kicked the man in the ribs. The witch convulsed and rolled away, coughing into the road while he held his side.

Dean swiped at the torrent of rain falling down his brow. "Don't follow me. I won't hesitate next time."

He turned and took a step away.

"No!" the witch called out. Dean stopped, turned to look behind him.

"Do it now!" the witch screamed over the wind. "Kill me like you killed my friends!"

Dean rolled his eyes and picked up his path towards the gate, and then, he knew, to Sam.

"No!" The witch's scream became a howl while Dean walked on. He didn't spare another glance over his shoulder, leaving the witch in the road for a second time. That was, though, until the scream grew, and the ground began shaking underfoot without the aid of any thunder overhead. Dean spun, and his eyes flashed in bewilderment.

The witch was on his knees, screaming towards the sky, his shoulders back. The rumbling increased till it matched the growl of the witch's voice in pitch, the already failing world around them darkening. At the center of the man's clawed hands a white light bloomed and flashed, like a light bulb letting out a final burst before dying, and swam around the man's body like a spinning fire. His scream grew louder than even the wind. The white light around his body grew each time his volume did, a nimbus of white in the blackness around them.

Dean loosed his gun and shot at the man, sparring not a second of thought. The bullet passed through the witch's body without a hint of reaction, only adding a porthole that more white light escaped. Dean felt a shudder climb his legs. He turned and ran towards the gate while the man screamed behind him.

If Dean had a second more for thought, or was in a marginally less tense situation, he would have given consideration towards the black clouds above them, and how they had collected into something that was shaped like a skull, and that the mouth looked as though it too were screaming.


	36. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

It was true that **Sam **had carried the charm all the way to Miriam's tent, though now that it was out of his hands, removed from his pockets, he didn't want to spare the disgusting thing another touch. He took his bewildered eyes off Miriam, the concept of her words hitting home, and stared at the charm.

"No. I'm not going to touch it."

"I cannot do it, lest it returns to its anchor." She let her hands dissolve back into the cover of her scarves. She pointed a reading gaze at Sam, like there were words written on his clothes, too. "You think it's dirty, demonic. Witchcraft."

The words took him a moment to understand, such was the hardness in the change of direction. Miriam had been so gentle up till then, almost motherly - this new deepness in her voice gave Sam pause. Whether or not these were the words Sam would use for witchcraft didn't matter in the moment, when he didn't want to point such harsh words at a woman who seemed kind enough.

"No," she cut in, "not witchcraft alone. Everything. Everything other than yourself."

"That's not true."

"You see yourself as some sort of…I think the word might be, 'paragon'."

"I - I'm not like other hunters," Sam said, leaning forward in his chair. "I don't want to kill myself, I'm not going to jump off a cliff just because I'm told to. Hunters are reckless, they're crazy, selfish, destructive. This entire world of killing and getting killed - it's _ridiculous_." Sam was aware his voice had raised but this was a different volume than his outburst before. For one, Ivan hadn't returned to put him back in his place. And neither was he defensive - if anything, he was stating the facts as they were, plain as day for anyone to see, if they just opened their eyes. Miriam gave him a scrupulous look. And maybe for the first time in his life Sam felt he had someone who was actually listening to him. So he went on.

"I mean, I'm not selfish - I want to be a lawyer and help people. So much happens in the world besides monsters and demons killing people, I can do something there instead. I thought -" He stopped short for a moment. "On this trip I thought I was getting close again with my brother, we were becoming friends again. Which, is a long story. And he promised - no hunting, no monsters, just a trip for my birthday before I graduate and leave for school." Sam felt top heavy in his seat, fell back into his chair. "And, you know, the entire time, this charm was in his pocket. 'To protect us', he said. So that I would believe I was safe with him and wouldn't leave for college. And then it was ghost after ghost. Lie after lie. I don't want a life of lies. I don't want - " Sam gestured around the room with his hands. "_This_, anymore. It's just lies and killing and dying. Why?" He looked up, into Miriam's eyes, asking every part of her that he could reach. "Why would a person stay in this kind of life? Why _shouldn't _I want better for myself?"

A fierce stretch of silence settled in the room. For so long, Sam had been in the thrall of the howling wind, and, besides the rush of his own blood, he finally felt like the quiet was a blanket. He could say whatever he wanted under it.

After a moment Miriam eased forward and her hands broke through her scarves and shawls. Placing her elbows on the table, she rested her chin on her clenched hands.

"I've met…many hunters. In my life. Men and women, in between that and outside. Here and in the place of my home. What, you are surprised there are hunters across the globe?"

"No, I've met hunters from other places. I guess I didn't think you weren't from here."

"Does that matter to you?" It was the practiced tone of a woman who had asked that question many times. "Do you only hate hunters, or anyone different than you?"

Sam was speechless for a moment, as dazed by the question as the strong tone it was asked in. "I - no. No, I don't hate - "

"I only play, Sam. But it's nice to know your heart is a bit larger than it's seeming. There are hunters here, and there are hunters in Africa, too, yes, some who hunt monsters and some who are monsters. In fact, when I was a girl in my early twenties - how old are you, Sam?"

He blinked. "You can't tell?"

She smiled, said, "Some things I let people hold on to for themselves."

"I - turn nineteen…tomorrow." Sam found the nearness of it interesting. That he'd almost forgotten his own birthday, considering it was the reason for being here, ultimately.

"So not much older than you are now, my grandmother was killed by some of these men, hunters. The kindest woman I've met in my life, spent her life traveling to villages to cure and help. We did good work, using our talents and knowledge to make things grow where they wouldn't, banish the smoke of demons, send loved ones onward to peace. There were those who loved her and the good work she did, treated her like a goddess, which she was never really pleased with. But a coin always has two sides, so to speak. Some would see her dead."

Sam could see she was drifting away towards the place where a person remembered. "As a girl, at the time I could never understand why anybody would hate my grandmother, or why some of these hunters wanted to take her life so badly. We had met many hunters on our travels and had helped them during my lessons with her, but these ones…I don't know. They were different in themselves. Followed us around the villages and even countries. Chased us, cursed us. Not real curses, mind you, I knew how to tell the difference then."

She paused for a moment to float a while in those memories. Sam saw the fluttering emotions cross her face, the sadness, the joy, and the curls of old indignations. But they weren't long there; after a moment Miriam returned to Sam and looked him in the eye.

"They came at us in the night, which had never happened before. It was not that we weren't prepared for this sort of attack, but we had just left a small village with children made sick by spirits, and we were tired. They burned down the home of the family where we slept. By the time any of us were aware of this, it was too late. Myself and the infant daughter of the family were the only ones to make it out, and because she was the only one small enough for me to carry. That was my first child."

In the face of Miriam's sorrowful voice, Sam didn't know how to respond, what to say or share, besides the look of resentment that he knew had crossed his face.

"It was not the, what you call 'monsters', who had ruined all I'd had in my country, but - " She held up a crooked finger, punctuating her words. "It was also the hunters who were my saviors. They took me inside their homes, gave me shelter and protection while the wounds on my skin healed and the ones of my heart scarred over. In America, I have been called a witch, a worshiper of the devil, and a whore. But I was also addressed as a hunter, and a healer. Sometimes a savior. And I've been stronger, for all that has happened in my life. Just as you have, and your ancestors were, and theirs.

"Now, I won't beat you over the head with this tale any longer," Miriam said, slipping away from the loftiness of her tale and turning stern once again. "I know I am not the only person to this but listen to an old woman with the blood still on her hands, if you won't listen to anyone else. Awful fathers, hunters, _lawyers_…" She paused to drive the word deeper. "They are everywhere. Terrible men and women living in the blackness of their evil. But the good work you could be doing for the world isn't blackened by those who would kill innocent families inside their own homes, for no reason other than they wanted to. Hate your father if you are to hate anyone, but do not hate the work of the good people who make this world a little better. And the moment you stop running from that, the moment you'll be freer from it than ever. We must feel the pain, honor it, then - " She carried her hand through the air like a leaf on the wind. "Let it go."

In the following silence of Miriam's words neither said a word, simply sitting, staring, while Sam focused on the rhythm of his own breath. These words, Miriam's story, it sat above Sam's head as though it had hands, and pressed down on him, and the longer they sat, too, the greater in weight it became. He couldn't place it. Couldn't say why there was this mound in his chest, and his heart began beating faster, in his confusion. It felt, he started to think, like something was trying to come through the door of his mind, but found it locked, and was pounding its fists against the wood, deep and cavernous as it echoed around inside of him. At the first sigh of a breaking splinter, Sam snapped to attention, heart in his throat, and stood upright from the table once more.

"I need to leave. My - I have to - "

A sound shook into the air behind Miriam as a beaded curtain split down the middle. Ivan burst out from behind, and in the second he saw him, Sam was worried that he'd been heard again. But the seriousness in Ivan's gaze skimmed over Sam and went straight towards his mother.

"The mouth," he spoke, in a slight accent of the Netherlands. "It's open."

After a breath Miriam's eyes cast downwards in thought.

He remembered Miriam had mentioned a mouth outside, when they'd stood next to the moving carousel. Sam said, "What does that mean?"

They ignored him. "What about the eyes?" Miriam asked Ivan.

"They are right on us."

Miriam turned her head sharply at the words, sighing in frustration. "It must be this charm. To think I've spent these passed days searching for ways to end this storm and the solution delivered itself to us. Sam," Miriam paused to get his attention. "We need to destroy this charm. You _must _open it."

"I can't touch it."

"If it was going to run, it would have done so the moment you meant to take it from your brother. Don't you think so? Something inside ties it to you as well."

"No, I won't."

"Nona," Ivan pressured from behind. Sam thought he heard the faint tremors of wind outside, though it had been perfectly still the whole while.

"You must look past your issues - "

"I won't. I don't have issues."

Sam took a step away - but no sooner had his shoe touched the ground was he overtaken, unable to move. It could be likened to getting stuck in mud, he imagined. Miriam hadn't moved, and he couldn't. But Ivan had - one hand rested on the back of his mother's chair, while the other was outstretched towards Sam, held as though to keep something firm in the air. By the glean in his eye Sam knew it was Ivan who had this hold on him. He felt the power of Ivan's stare, saw the thin line of Miriam's frown under her scarves, and the air crackled around them as it filled more and more with a new electricity.

Somewhere, a dam broke, a leash snapped. In the heart of whatever magic protected the festival from the storm the electricity snapped its jaws, and the three of them were thrown from their feet with the release as it blew through the tent.

—

The peace that fell over **Dean **after he crossed the gate was a completely disorienting experience. He pulled up short immediately and listened - to nothing. The wind was not blowing, the rain not falling. When he looked up the sky was still bruised and pulsing with thunder with lightening, but neither was the ground where he stood wet nor the carnival before him toppled to the ground in the storm. It was a moment - and _only_ a moment - of encapsulating peace, accompanied by nothing but the ringing in his ears and the rush of his breath.

He broke the silence as he began running. "Sam!"

Passed the empty ticket booth and around the greeting wooden cutouts of clowns and farm animals, he stopped, looked around, and picked a direction to run. A carnival, Dean thought, was a place meant to be thriving and packed to the brim; children were supposed to be shouting for money at the games and screaming their heads off on the rides. When the din of conversation and jubilation was missing, the husk that a carnival left behind felt menacing, something not unlike a ghost itself. A few freestanding buildings, where florescent fliers announced the times for exhibit judging and the announcement of winners, and the stage where no doubt a performance should have been taking place, all stood the same - empty.

Not even Sam.

Dean ran around the booths and rides, pounded on the doors and screamed from the stage, shouting for Sam and getting no response but his own echo. He found no one, and felt like the last person on Earth.

Dean stood on the edge of the stage, staring out at the festival in front of him. "Sam! Sammy!" He let his arms drop, looking on while his shout died in the empty crowd in front of him. "Sam, I'm sorry! Just - please!" He knew his voice sounded desperate, but because he was - for his brother back, for forgiveness, to take them both to safety. He cupped his hands around his mouth a final time. "I'm sorry!"

He came to rest at the place that he started, staring towards the field and empty buildings and the dead air of the rides and booths behind him, and the lunacy made no sense to him. He _knew_ Sam was here. He could feel the truth of that like he's read it on all the posters around him. Dean sat on his haunches and tried to catch his breath, for a moment letting his head hang between his shoulders. Now that the rain wasn't falling in his eyes and his skin was dry, his hair dried in place where it stuck. He looked up towards the sky. The shape like a black skull in the clouds he could swear was looking right at him, the sole inhabitant of this place. _Are you seeing this too, Sam?_

A flash of something caught his attention, and he found the witch looking in at him just from the other side of the gate. The white light that had surrounded him like a sun was still there, wafting off him like mist. Dean got to his feet and pulled out his gun once more, feeling the nervous energy enter his body again. This time his eyes glowed too, and they landed on Dean across the distance. The witch scowled, stopped outside of the carnival in a way that made Dean think he couldn't come in. He was stalking the length of the gate as if he saw some line that Dean couldn't. In the white light of the witch's glow Dean could see splashes of red on his clothes and a blackened place on his chest, like he'd been burned by something, and this mother fucker _still _wasn't dead. This witch had a power, and it was being pointed at Dean. The gun felt exceptionally small in his hands.

The witch closed his hands into fists at his side. The muscles in his neck tensed and he hunched shoulders. The white aura was turning into a shade of red like dried blood, blackening like iron that's oxidized. When the light was no longer a light, but a blackness that swallowed the world around him, the witch seemed to release it.

Dean first felt the pulse of the power in his ears, a shift in pressure, and, like a bomb had gone off, the storm fell on top of them. It picked Dean up in it's hands and tossed him like trash. His shoulder cracked against the ground. He winced, pulling himself up to his elbow in time to see the witch stalk through the gate and into the carnival.

—

The world was a raucous around them when **Sam **finally gathered his wits and sat up from the floor. He looked around to take stock of what happened. The shelves were no longer attached to the tent wall but lied in a heap on the floor among their tossed contents, as was the same with the small table, but the tent had not collapsed. The walls bulged with the fierce wind against the blockage and Sam could barely hear his own thoughts. He looked back and found Ivan helping Miriam from the ground, one hand on her back for support. Sam leapt to help.

"What was that?" He'd taken her hand, which was thin and cool to the touch in his own. A wave of noise came over their heads again, and it was Sam's history with the insane that made him wonder if it really was a _roar_.

"That - " Miriam said, taking her hand from Sam's to catch a stray scarf that was falling from her shoulder. "Was my spell breaking. This whole place will blow away soon. And with it, us." Miriam tossed the scarf back in place around herself.

"So then - " Sam gestured hard towards the curtain he came through on his way in. "Let's go."

"Right you are," Miriam said. "Ivan, is the room ready?"

But he had taken on a far-away look. His body was in the room, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, seeing something Sam knew he himself couldn't. "Nona, there are people here."

"People?" Miriam asked, surprised. "Are they hurt?"

"That I don't know." He blinked and the change on his features was immediate: his eyes were focused, his jaw muscles firm as his tone grew serious. "One ran into the mirror house and the other's not far behind. They disappeared before I could stop them."

Miriam thought a second, then said, "It's too dangerous to leave our cover right now, Ivan, we have to trust that they will be safe until Sam can destroy this charm."

"I can't leave them out in the storm, Nona, the mirror house is a deathtrap. If something falls…" He trailed away, leaving the rest of it to Miriam, which she seemed to figure out just fine.

She sighed, screwing her mouth into a worried frown. "Please be safe." She held out her hand from a skinny wrist. Ivan took it in his own and Miriam squeezed. It lasted only a moment. Ivan strode passed Sam who dodged his shoulder at the last moment, then disappeared from the room once again, his sleeveless undershirt fading into the darkness, and too from their sight.

When Sam turned back he noticed Miriam's low shoulders while she stared after her son, and for a moment she looked her age, if Sam could ever guess it. In a heartbeat, though, this was gone. Her state shifted and all at once she became resolute in her stance, holding her cane out to Sam like a pointed finger as a new fire burned behind her eyes. Her features became scrutinous, her chin high. "This is the moment to decide, Samuel. We can destroy this charm and end this madness, or you can continue running till your feet bleed. But I can make this promise - you won't get the chance to run away from this one."


	37. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

**Dean **hugged the wall, sliding along the mirrored surface while he tried to keep his breathing under control, to listen for the witch's footfalls, while he tried to find a way out. It was the first rules of hunting: don't put yourself into a corner, and don't let the target make you panic. Yet there he was, trapped like a rat in the house of mirrors, that could at any second become the house of knives, which itself violated the second rule. He needed to get out.

In his crouch he tiptoed down the hall, trying to find a direction in the dark building that didn't look like all the others, that might lead him back outside and away from the witch. Outside the storm was a god pounding its fists against the building till the roof sounded as if it might fall on top of him. If the witch didn't kill him in this building he had no doubt that the storm would finish the job. Dean rounded another corner, trying his best not to think too deeply about it.

It had been the closest place of shelter, this house of mirrors, and sounded like a fine idea at the time, when Dean hoped to trick the witch, turn him around and slink out the back, but it had been his crux, too. In what was the nature of the mirrors he'd taken paths and walked down halls that were only meant to confuse him. His only solace, he reasoned, was that the witch had gotten confused too, and if Dean could just keep silent long enough, it would be okay. After all, the witch was glowing. It wouldn't be difficult to see him coming. Anything could happen is all he was saying. Like getting trapped in a fun house of mirrors while a murderous witch chased him through an abandoned carnival.

Dean peered around another corner. It looked like each one so far. Holding his breath, he pointed his gun to the ground carefully. The dim glow falling through the cracks and corners of this makeshift building was the only light inside the dead building, which faded away the deeper the hallway went till there was nothing left to see by, but he could see it was clear. That was what mattered. He slinked down the hall, his footsteps silent, his ears open.

For as many times as it had happened, the glances of his own twisted reflection would shock Dean's nerves more often than he would admit later on, sure that he'd gotten caught having heard no sign of the witch's approach. But it was never anything more than an extra tall version of himself, or one that was, sometimes, turned upside down. Always himself, in the end. And even as he thought about it, he realized he hadn't heard any noise he could attribute to the witch for…how long had he spent in the mirror house? Neither things he could be sure of. He still jumped at every creek and moan the building made in the storm, just for good measure.

Dean stilled where he was, his ears perking up defensively in between more crazed reflections of himself. He'd heard something, the shuffle of a foot, maybe. He couldn't see any trace of a glow, witchy or natural. Yet - there it was again, the sound of a footstep. Dean crossed the hall and sidled into the opening of another labyrinthine turn, holding his gun to his chest, ready to fire.

He peered around the bend, listening. These footsteps didn't sound like the gate of a person on the attack, but of one going slow, searching. No glow, no voices. So, the witch had flipped his off switch and was doing it the old fashioned way, eh? That was fine. It was even, now.

Dean waited till the dark shape of the witch's reflection appeared on the mirrors, counted to three under his breath, then burst from around the corner, pointing the gun's barrel like a finger. He wouldn't miss the head this time.

But it wasn't the witch.

Dean's heart skipped a beat and for a second he believed he'd finally found Sam, but where Sam and this figure shared a tallness, this one was nearly as wide as the hallway. This man filled the entirety of the mirrors around him, coming to a fast stop at the sight of Dean's gun. His hands came up placatingly.

"Are you alright?" The man had a strong voice that carried over the sounds of the storm and bounced around the reflective walls. "Not hurt?"

The sudden rise and fall of his hopes left Dean trying to catch his breath. If truth be told there was a pain in his head that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His lungs burned, and his spirit felt trampled, as if he'd ran it over somewhere on the highway, but he said, "No, I'm fine, but - I'm looking for someone. A boy, I think he's here somewhere." His heart was tired but it still raced.

The man took a tepid step forward, changing his gesture of surrender to a beckoning one as he put his hand out towards Dean. "I've seen no boy, but don't worry, we will find him. But it isn't safe here. Where is your friend?"

Dean let out, "My…" _The witch_. "No," Dean said, shaking his head. "He's not my friend. He followed me in here, he's trying - "

A furious scream cut of Dean's words just before the sound of the great crash of glass came down the hall accompanied by a quick flash of light. He ducked reflexively, hiding behind braced arms. It lasted no longer than a few seconds, but the sound was a heinous attack on his ears, and his nerves. The hulking man had stood straight and looked towards the sound. His shoulders were tense under the thin, rain-soaked wife-beater.

"He's breaking the mirrors," the man said in a confused tone. The more he spoke the more Dean picked up words slightly colored with an accent.

"I need to get out of here. He's chased me all over town."

"He's breaking - " A second scream, scarred as though from a raw throat, and another shattering mirror. This one was closer, the light a brighter white. It settled after a moment.

"Please, I just need to get to my brother, we need to leave."

Dean saw the man hesitate, saw the flex in his jaw. He finally nodded, staring hard towards the way of the noise. "We will get out. There is a maintenance door we can use. This way."

The man walked past Dean, who followed behind in the draft of his speed. He held his gun to his chest at the ready, one finger on the trigger though his fingers shook, while the man led him quickly down the darkened hall. For each hard step the towering man took Dean had to take two silent ones.

"Hey man, what's your name?" Dean said, his voice low.

"Ivan," the man said over his shoulder as he walked. In the darkness Ivan's black hair and mustache blended into the dim, while his pale skin and white shirt almost created their own light, like the star guiding Dean in the night. It was a name Dean thought fitting, at least where appearances were concerned.

"Ivan, I'm Dean. Do you work here or something? Where is everyone?"

"My mother is the boss, you could say, but I do the lifting of anything heavier than her cane. And the reconnaissance work, too, I am guessing." He gave Dean a wink over his shoulder. "When they forecasted the storm would come over the festival the city canceled it, and when it grew even worse, my mother sent the carnival workers away, too. She didn't think her spell would be strong enough to protect them for much longer." His voice took a distant quality. "And she was right, in the end."

Dean thought he felt an electricity on his skin, climbing higher in the air like a breeze on the hairs of his arms. "Wait, what do you mean spell?"

But Ivan didn't answer, stopping, and Dean heard it too, then. Another scream, along a sound of broken glass was growing in volume around them, crawling towards them from behind one after another. They saw that stray beams of dim light were being thrown in thin fractals around the hall, and growing in number until Dean thought it looked like spiderwebs made of light, and the crackling noise - it was coming from the mirrors, as cracks ran through one, then its neighbor. A new light was coming towards them around the corners and short hallways they'd taken, this one a swallowing darkness like Dean had seen around the witch at the festival gate.

Ivan's words were fast, his tone low. "This man, what is he?"

"A witch," Dean responded right away. "Who won't stay dead."

Ivan planted a large hand on Dean's shoulder and pulled, taking a handful of his shirt with him. He pushed Dean down the hall, shouting, "Run, now!"

He took off down the hall of their labyrinth, and when Ivan gave a direction, Dean took it without question. The popping electricity in the air hadn't abandoned them or allowed them to outrun it; the fast line of breakage running through the mirrors was running a steadfast path through the glass, matching them step for step.

After a few moments of their sprinting, Ivan finally called, "Stop!"

Dean did. They had reached the end of the hall in a dead end of more mirrors. Dean put a hand to one, breathing hard, searching for their way out, why he'd been led here. The speeding cracks in the mirrors ran under his hand like a bullet. He jumped back as the glass around him was slowly eaten away.

"Ivan, where's the door?" The panic was eating away at his resolve.

"Right here." He came around Dean with a hand on his shoulder and touched the glass just to the left of the mirror Dean inspected. With prying fingers Ivan slid his grip through a gap Dean hadn't seen before. He jerked the frame, and Dean heard a latch release. The mirror slid on a track, revealing a black metal door with a sign that read, 'Maintenance Exit Only.' As the sound of crackling glass grew around them, Dean felt the pressure press upon him, as though it was taking on a weight. Something was going to happen.

Ivan twisted the handle and pushed - but the door stayed firm. Ivan considered the door up and down, tried once more, but even under his weight, the door didn't budge.

"Ivan," Dean warned.

"I came through this door," Ivan said, taking a step back to look around once more, "not ten minutes ago. Something must be blocking us."

A pulse in the power like a wave over them. The already destroyed mirrors seemed to be hit all at once, turning into pebbled sized pieces of glass in their frames, sending out a handful of stray glass. Dean heard a dense thud, turned. Ivan was throwing his weight against the door.

Dean joined. One and then the next they tried their weight against the metal door, but it was as if the door was working contrary to them, stiff in it's frame and strong. As the electricity in the room lifted the hairs of his head and they each rammed themselves against the door, Dean could see the fleeting cracks of outside light though the jamb, and he wanted nothing more than to slip into it, was so close that he thought he could taste it. _I can't reach you, Sam_, he thought, closing his eyes.

The force reached its capacity, Dean felt. Like magma bursting through the crust, it was as if the room itself had popped. The mirrors could take no more stress, buckling under the pressure, exploding away from the wall in a rain of daggers. At the second of the horrific noise, Dean let himself open his eyes, to at least see his killer. He would not die with his eyes closed, he decided.

The room was white with the flying glass, a rainstorm of glass inside and out. He believed he saw Ivan reaching out, but not to grasp. A faint glow surrounded his hand through the glass, unlike the witch's in a way that told Dean this was a different power. It was only for a splint second, however; an unequalled force barreled through Dean, launching him backwards like nothing more than a bag in the wind. He flew, and flew, and landed. It didn't dawn on him that the pinpricks against his skin was the rain of the outside and not the pain of shredding glass until he rolled to his back and gasped in the freezing air of the storm.

Dean could see the black metal door he'd just flown through, and the flecks of glass flying out of it like hail. The noise and debris was settling. Even in the rush of the storm around him, the silence was strong. Dean looked around. He was alone.

He got to his feet. "Ivan!"

A hand came through the blackness of the building and gripped the frame of the threshold. It was Ivan, pulling himself from the room with one arm with the other cradled against his side. Dean crossed the distance and ran up the short steps, catching Ivan before his hand could slip off the door, slick as it was with blood. He put the arm over his shoulder and the pair hurried down the steps.

He spared a thought to wonder how Ivan hadn't been shredded like cheese. The man should be dead. He led a grunting Ivan down the steps and away from the house, glad that he wasn't, but that witch - if he was the heart of the attack, there was no way he was walking away from this. Dean and Ivan made it no farther than a few yards before a pained gasp caught Ivan's breath, and he sagged against Dean's support.

"S'my leg," Ivan said through his teeth. "Leg, something's bad."

Dean pulled on the last few steps to the corner of the closest abandoned booth where stuffed animals hung from the ceiling, tossed around in the wind and soaked from the rain. Ivan kept one arm close while he used the other for support, leaning back against the counter with a sick hiss of pain. He had a strong rivulet of blood falling down his cradled arm, dripping off the tip of his elbow, coming from somewhere among the countless other scraps and knicks along his smooth skin. For a moment Dean was glad for the cascading rain - it washed away some of the blood and made it seem like less of a problem, regardless that he knew it was.

But his leg… the dense fabric of Ivan's cargo pants were heavy with the rain and pillowed where they tucked into his boots, but Dean could still see the black stain of blood, menacing, where it had consumed the fabric from the knee down, and the fist sized shard of glass that had pierced through and into Ivan's thigh. Ivan put a prodding finger to the sharp edge of the exposed glass and hissed, recoiling.

"Don't touch it," Dean hurried to say. "Don't pull it out."

Ivan's scowl turned into a grimace as he pulled a hard breath through his nose. He let his head fall back and let it out in a sigh. "I know, I know," he said.

Dean hovered his hands over the shard of glass, the pants saturated with the dark blood, thinking of what to do, how to move forward in a way that wouldn't hurt Ivan, even though that ship had sailed. He stood instead. "Where - " Dean looked around, panicked. "Where do we go? Where do I take you?"

"Our tent, to my mother. It's near the carousel." Ivan grunted again. He pushed himself up with his good arm and onto his good leg, swaying slightly, then his face blanched while Dean tried to get under Ivan's arm again. Dean thought it was due to his pain, which was no doubt great, but his gaze was locked in the direction they had come from instead of forward.

"Dean."

He looked. The house of mirrors sat, an empty building in the storm, the same on the outside as it had when Dean first ran inside of it, as though nothing disastrous ever happened inside. That wasn't the case for carnivals, where something always happened inside, Dean believed, and no truer was that than now as he looked on at the black building and the swaying figure approaching them from its direction. Through the falling sheets of rain Dean saw their stumbling gate, the way their arms seemed to sway like two dead things at their side, and the two bright points of light where their eyes would be. Burning violently, like cherry red embers left behind after the fire is dead. Thunder preceded a flash of lightening and in the flash Dean saw - the witch. The wind came in a wild gust, slicing the rain like razors against Dean's face, yet still he didn't move. The witch took another tepid step in their direction. The air was oozing with a deep feeling of enmity that fell on Dean's flesh like the rain and leached into his spirit. His body shivered.

Ivan grunted in pain as Dean pulled him in the opposite direction, but didn't protest. The wind blew so loudly around them it had begun to sound like the howl of a pack of animals, as if the world was screaming along with it.


	38. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

Miriam led **Sam **through the beaded curtain, but no farther than a step. Her outstretched hand, holding open the curtain, remained a barrier. Sam wasn't sure how he knew but he felt like Miriam had tensed.

"Be gone from this place. Leave." She projected into the room. Sam peered around the curtain.

He saw that this extra room was already occupied, by a young girl with French braided hair who was no taller than the chair she sat in. She turned at his glance. Looked at him over her shoulder. Sam tried to gasp through the block in his throat.

"I said - Be. Gone."

As the word left Miriam's mouth she slammed the butt of her cane into the ground, Sam covering his eyes instinctually. The sound was the crack of a whip, unlike any Sam would have thought to hear come from the rugs that decorated the tent, and the accompanying light was as bright as a firecracker. But both were gone in an instant. When Sam uncovered his eyes the room sat empty.

"That was - "

"Don't doddle, Samuel, they're already with us." She walked through the curtain, into the room. Sam did not.

"She - "

"Will be back if you do not put this to rest. Come in the room."

Sam swallowed put on foot in front of the other. The light in the room was, unsurprisingly, purple, coming from another hidden source but that flickered still like fire. The metallic threads of Miriam's scarves glittered and shone in strange colors while she moved. She was calling out instructions all the while, perhaps hoping to plant some kind of understanding in Sam. He stood in the middle of the room like a fish out of water as Miriam readied herself, moving supplies around the table, setting some that hadn't been out yet. Sam could never in his life say what all these materials were that Ivan had prepared; Miriam had the truth of it, he understood nothing about witchcraft. But, while Sam stood still, he took stock of what he saw. Glass jars stopped with corks and covered in wax, filled with things that seemed plant-like and some that weren't. He spied one jar in which was an object suspiciously shaped like a tiny jawbone, and he stiffened, swallowed. Familiar smoke drifted through the room from a corner Sam couldn't find and carried the same sickly sweet aroma as the incense from before. And all the while, the wind continued to blow, the monster continued to roar, pushing at the hollows in the canvas walls with a strength that forced Sam to keep looking back at it for tears.

"Sam," Miriam broke off her shuffling to point at him. "It's time to sit."

But he couldn't. Not where the girl had been. A tremor was in his knees, the muscles in his legs quivering while he still tried to stand tall. He obsessively cracked the knuckles on one hand. Yet he couldn't take the seat.

"Samuel." At his full name he snapped to attention. It was the name John called him when it was time to be serious. _ It's always time to be serious_. "In a matter of minutes the spirits will swallow us whole. It is time."

Sam eyed the table again. He had carried the charm from the other room, once he'd found it beneath the contents of the shelves that had fallen in the blast. He squeezed the charm where he held it, in his pocket. Why wouldn't this thing just…disappear, go back to Dean so he wouldn't have to worry about it?

He swallowed again, despite himself. The tendrils of wind that came through the canvas walls was icy as the winter, and mean. He pulled his clenched fist from his sweater pocket, and looked at the velvet fabric. Suddenly, he didn't want to let it go, and could only stare.

"Samuel." She made a few quick snaps with her fingers to steal back his attention. "We cannot wait a second longer. We will have more guests the longer we spend on this game." The business was back in her voice. "Take your seat and put this business to rest."

Sam's breath came to a halt behind the choke in his throat. He opened his mouth and forced the air in. He hadn't noticed when it started, but his hand, which before had been a clenched stone, was trembling as he held out the charm. The color of the fabric was an attack on his eyes even in the smoky light.

"The things you feel are fair and warranted, Sam, but someday, this pain will be useful to you. You must make your decision."

Sam nodded his head, and reached his shaking hand towards the back of his chair to pull it out.

—

The limping pair had wound their way through the barren stalls and rides, leaving behind them a trail of blood from Ivan's leg, like bread crumbs. **Dean **couldn't shake the witch. It hadn't seemed to matter how quickly he pulled Ivan along; each glance over his shoulder showed the witch just turning the corner, or a handful of paces in their wake. He wasn't gaining, exactly, which was the good news, but neither was he slowing. It was Ivan who was slowing, the more blood he lost. The directions to his mother's tent had began coming slower and slower. It had been Dean's best to get them as far as a carousel. But now Ivan wouldn't answer any of Dean's questions, or use his good leg for anything other than dragging it behind them, leaving Dean alone to guess what to do here.

The carousel was as dead as any of the other rides, the animals' plastic, black eyes staring out like caught fish. Dean looked behind; for the moment, the witch had disappeared behind the last turn. That just meant he was on his way. With as much care as he could manage, Dean hauled Ivan onto the carousel, towards the back, where he could hide behind…something, though how long could he hide them before Ivan bled out, or they were found out?

Dean crouched behind the central pillar of the carousel rather than an animal, as it was the widest thing here to hide the large man behind, and tried his best to ease Ivan off his shoulder. Yet, Dean was reaching his highest limit. Ivan's shoulders hit the ride with a strong thud, his head rolling to the front. With soft taps to his cheek Dean tried to rustle Ivan awake.

"Ivan," he whispered, though the rain did a fine job of drowning out most of his volume. "Ivan," Dean tried, louder. He waited. No use. All he did was force Ivan's head to sway like a pendulum. He wasn't cradling his arm anymore, either, and what had earlier been a frightening stream of blood running from his shoulder had nearly died out, the rain ensuring it never dried. Without the time to get close to the wound on his leg there was no telling what was rain and what blood. Dead growled in his anger and pounded the side of his fist against the nearest animal, a bear with a necklace of flowers. It shook on its base but the sound was as hollow as the satisfaction he got from it. The Ferris wheel stood above the other rides at the far side of the festival. In the raging wind Dean could see it swaying, like a tree at a river's edge.

"Winchester!"

Instinctively, Dean lowered, peered around Ivan and the fake animals. The sagged figure of the witch stood in the small clearing where Dean had moments ago, no doubt where the waiting carousel riders would gather for their turns. He spun in place with his arms limp at his sides. Dean knew not to underestimate the witch, however he looked, but this wasn't all that kept Dean behind cover - the anger was rolling off the witch like ripples in the water, heat coming off the asphalt during a summer drive. Dean thought that if he reached out a hand it would coat his skin like a tar. He got even lower in his crouch.

The witch looked this way and that, spinning manically in place at the center of the clearing, the slight sounds of his growl reaching Dean through the storm. With each turn he made, the energy in the air shifted as if he pushed it around with nothing but his willpower, his lame arms useless around him, the rain falling off his fingers in scarlet drops. It was within this pool of power where, like steadfast rocks in a river, flashes of ghostly figures would appear, then disappear just as quickly. With each pass the witch made of the area, with each shift of his anger which seemed to follow his gaze, specters stood still as stone, their gray skin withstanding the freezing rain, their clothing as dead and lifeless in the wind as they were. Here for a moment; flickering away like television static. The witch screamed; his anger flashed through the air like a bomb; Dean choked on the thickness of it. The witch might not have known where to look, and neither did he seem to see these ghosts, but they knew where to point their stare. And each one appeared closer and closer to the carousel. Within the few breaths that had passed, Dean and the witch stood among a new sea, made of these visitors. And they were all looking at Dean.

A hand grasped Dean's shirt. The next instant he was weightless, flying backwards like no more than a discarded wad of paper. The shock didn't allow him to prepare - he landed upside down in the gravel, rolled off of his neck to settle on his back, staring at the sky. The black hulking cloud above was more skull-shaped than ever, with the hollows of its eyes veined with lighting and the mouth open in its grimace. Dean was up in a flash. The myriad of ghosts had somehow dispersed, but there was one set of eyes that had finally found their mark. The witch smiled and his eyes flashed red, saying, "There!" And the witch ran, sending gravel behind him with each step.

Dean sprinted in the other direction, knowing not the way or the destination. He didn't believe the witch would stop to bother with Ivan; during the time of their chase, the witch's screams hadn't for the him, but for Dean himself. Ivan seeming no more important than a backpack or lunchbox. Dean promised to go back for him the moment this son of a bitch was dealt with - and buried in the ground, so he wouldn't come back again.

Dean sprinted around the corner of an empty booth whose stuffed prizes had been blown away, the rest swaying on their hooks. In his path the apparition of a headless body flashed over and again like a broken street light. Dean skidded to a halt, changed his course. On fast feet he overtook one more booth, then another. He heard the deep scream of the witch as if it were there on his shoulder, but there was nothing, and it was as if the witch's running footsteps echoed his own and knew that once again he would always be too close. Dean faltered a step, but caught himself on the countertop of the nearest booth. Deep in his body Dean could feel his exhaustion like a black hole, the last scraps of his resolve and energy falling inside it helplessly. How long had he been running? How much longer would he have to run? What could he do against any of this when it felt as though the world were against him, too?

A horrified scream of a young girl cut through his thoughts and the wind but passed like a speeding car at the same time Dean saw a lumped humanoid shape ahead of him in the gravel, clawing towards him without any legs, just to see it fade away like a vision. Behind that was the laughter of a villain from some phantom, then words spoken that he could hear but didn't understand, swept away like a dust on the wind. The dark, dead figures of those no longer on this plane were a constant in the corners of Dean's vision. This place was chaos; it was a labyrinth built out of carnival games and it felt like his pursuer had every map to the place.

He ran through a small court of food stalls that he'd already searched for Sam, his lungs alight with fire. Around another corner, and he came face to face with the scared, half-shorn face of a woman in a white nightgown. She brought a dead hand to Dean's throat and snatched him out of the air. Like a rag she tossed him to the side where he collided with trashcan, rolling around in the violent wind. He had no air, but rose anyway. These ghosts - being mad with them made no sense, even if he had the time to spare for that. There was no reasoning with them, only with the one who had the power over them, and Dean believed that wouldn't happen till this witch was dead and in the ground. Dean tried to run again, but a stitch in his lungs and a suddenly painful leg slowed him considerably, eyeing the ghost of the woman at the side who had plucked him like a feather. No more than a few paces, though, and Dean was taken by an army of hands and pressed to the ground.

He rolled under the intense weight but could only come to his back, meeting the sordid faces that held him. A pair of men who were as transparent as a piece of paper held up to the sun, identical in face and the twist at their necks. Their grins were devilish, lips cracked. One held Dean to the ground at the shoulders while the other raised a rock in the air. And Dean, his eyes filling with rain water and his spirit screaming for rest, didn't believe he had it in him to run any longer, and felt his head fall back to lay in the gravel.

The cloud above seemed to open its maw wider, as if it had come onto some triumph in that moment. Dean decided then that he would keep his eyes open, too, when the ghost killed him. And so was why, when the hand holding the rock never swung down, and the air around him seemed to spark like the ground had been struck, and the black skull above became a jack-o-lantern, lit from the inside, Dean witnessed it all. The howl that filled his head had been unlike any he'd heard up to that point. It wasn't the scream of an animal meeting in its dying; it wasn't one made out of anger; it wasn't one of a bereaved mother holding her dead child. In hindsight, Dean would be able only to liken it to a flame being snuffed, alive one moment and gone the next, not burning itself to the end of a wick but a flame that had been extinguished before it was ready like water thrown on the coals of a fire. A tear through the world of a complete and utter desolation.

It was such an assault on his senses that Dean wondered if he was really watching his own life slip away, if this was what dying was like in actuality. But he remembered that the rock had never fallen across his face, and that his shoulders were suddenly free. He gasped, feeding his lungs some of the air they craved. Solace fell on him like a brick and tears came to his eyes. Maybe once this was over he would start appreciating his lungs more.

On a sore body Dean rolled over, caught himself on his elbow and began to rise again, taking in his surroundings to see that - yes, he was finally alone. The hanged twins that had caught him, the woman that had tossed him, rotting even as she'd stood there, the passersby who'd screamed and laughed all around him. All a figment of memory. The witch - what had happened? Had he been stopped somehow? Dean didn't believe he would be so lucky, though he wished it so fiercely, maybe he could make it real.

The witch came down Dean's path and found himself standing before a fallen man struggling to put himself back on his feet. The witch slowed and walked over with a haughty posture across his limp shoulders.

"How does it feel to be on the ground for once, Winchester?" His voice sounded much the same as it had on their first, and even second, meeting, but the depth that was accompanying it now sounded like there was another voice, richer, larger, on the undercurrents of his words. As he strode closer to Dean, who finally pushed himself up to a kneeling position, Dean considered the glow in his eyes and the mist of power that still surrounded him. So the ghosts hadn't been his doing.

A flash of a memory - John punching him outside their apartment. "I've been…" Dean trailed, catching his breath and running the back of his hand over his brow. "On the ground…before."

The witch _tsked_. "You laugh at us, kill us, but it sounds like you could use a little magic right now." As though to punctuate it the red in his eyes pulsed, gasoline added to the fire. He took another brooding step closer. This was close enough for Dean. He tried to push up off the ground once again but his legs had died, turned to exhausted muscle and bone in the short time he'd already been down. He came down on his forearms. The world was trembling, and the rain didn't help him find his center, if he had one left anymore.

He heard the fast few sounds of more running footfalls, the witch saying, "That's far enough," and he was pinned again to the ground like he'd been staked there. The witch pulled him around to his back where Dean was once again looking at the clouds.

The electricity within the cloud had flickered and died alongside the scream, Dean supposed. At its blackest edges, the clouds had began smudging, dissolving, which was…curious. Shifting like a thousand birds suddenly taking flight, the desert sands carried around by the wind. No time had passed at all, but some power had drained out the cloud in those few seconds, he thought. To call it a skull wouldn't have been right any longer; it was ashes in the breeze, smoke. He also saw the Ferris wheel above him. He was collapsed at its base. From a distant part in his mind he recognized how far he'd run from the carousel, and Ivan, who he hoped was still alive. The large Ferris wheel rocked in the wind; Dean wondered if it would fall over them, killing the both of them before the witch ever got the chance. He hoped it would, then hoped that Sam wouldn't be the one who found his body. The last thing he'd said to Sam, _We aren't safe here_.

"Look at me," the witch said, straddling him across the waist, Dean's arms held under his knees at the elbow. The witch's own arms were shorn to ribbons, Dean could see, shredded by the explosion of glass in the mirror house, the pieces of glass which still clung to his flesh. Dean did.

A wave of the witch's anger hit him like a blast from a furnace, fighting with the freezing pellets of the rain. "This is for my friends." A shadow began encroaching on them from the witch's back.

Dean didn't leave his eyes open this time, ready for his rest, ready for whatever the witch would do. It would be fast, Dean knew. A noise like a scythe swinging through the air joined the wind and the rain but Dean felt none of the pain he had expected. Instead he was floating in a new blackness, meeting the exhaustion halfway he supposed, carried away on it like a leaf on the current of a stream. It was a bliss he hadn't anticipated. He slipped away from the weight of the witch's body, as he did from the ache in his bones, piece by piece.

Through the thickness of the black, a voice called him, "Dean."

His eyes snapped open. The weight of his body was back, the drenched clothing on his skin, the pains in his core. And too was the rain and the wind, the Ferris wheel swaying though not as intensely as it had, but the skull - or rather, the place that the skull had been - was nearly erased. And there, cupping his face with cold, hard fingers, was Sam, wet snakes of hair falling around his worried face as he tried to catch Dean's eye.

"Oh," Dean breathed, finding a layer of relief he had never felt before, deeper and more rich than any he'd just come back from. "Good. You're…good." His head fell to the side and out of Sam's hands. There the witch laid in one more piece than he had been before. The cherry red pair of eyes in his severed head were dead now. Left behind were charred pits. Dean exhaled the breath he'd been saving for this moment, savoring the sigh. "Fucking finally."

Two voices became one. "Are you alright?"

Dean laughed to himself, grabbing Sam's outreaching hand. "I got hit by a train," he said. Sam pulled him up to his feet. A pain flashed through Dean's right leg and he gasped, already falling back down. But Sam caught him under the arms and bared his weight. He tossed one of Dean's arms over his shoulders and Dean gave a weak smile, focusing on the feel of Sam at his side. "Where the fuck…were you?" Dean swung a lazy hand to Sam's cheek but only succeeded in a tap. "Been looking everywhere."

"We - " Sam broke off, grunted as he adjusted his grip on Dean. "We need to get out of the rain."

"Couldn't agree more. There's someone else out here first, though. They're hurt."

"We'll find him."

Sam led Dean out of the small pavilion, leaving the body of the witch behind them, and they hobbled through the stalls. Even as they took their slow steps, the wind was calming down, the rain no longer flying as daggers against them but waves of a downpour on their heads. This new silence, their slow pace - Dean felt a peace he hadn't since Indianapolis, at Jameson's when the -

His head snapped to attention, turning to Sam. "The charm."

Sam rolled his jaw but didn't return the gaze. "Forget it, it's done. We'll talk when we're alone."

"When we're…" Dean looked ahead.

At the end of a row of skeletal booths and games was a tent that looked as though it hadn't been in the rain and wind all this time. The stakes tethering it to the ground where still in tact, the tight pull of the ropes wobbling in the wind though they were, and the sandwich board sign by the front door still stood, sharing the sale of future tellings for the low cost of five dollars. None of this was as surprising to Dean as the shape of another real life person standing in the mouth of the tent, a woman shorter than him what had to have been two feet. She wore the look of a wizened crone right on her face, Dean thought, as she stood under an umbrella. He glanced at Sam, who didn't seemed shocked at all to see her.

It was the old woman who called out first as Sam brought them within earshot of her. "My son, where have you left him?"

Dean knew that was a question for him. He called, "At the carousel. But he's not good." _This is his mother_, Dean thought, this dark-skinned woman who was swathed in an entire department store's reserve of scarves. He didn't question how the towering figure of a man who'd saved his life before could have come from her, but maybe he hadn't.

The woman moved aside as they approached. "Go inside out of the rain, I'll get my son."

"Are you sure?" Sam stopped them and Dean came up short at the tone Sam's offer. There was a familiarity there, a sense of trust he had in the old woman. Dean eyed both their faces in the moment. Sam was breathing harder from the exertion, and though Dean wanted to sprint to the carousel himself right then and carry Ivan inside with them, he didn't know if he had the energy in him to make even the few steps inside.

The woman nodded affirmation and walked away into the rain. The last thing Dean saw before disappearing into the cover of the tent on Sam's shoulder was the woman's scarves, some trailing behind in the gravel and dirt like a train, yet they weren't becoming dirty.


	39. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

**Sam **had taken his limping brother through Miriam's tent door and deposited him in a chair, to take stock of the ways he'd been hurt while they waited for Miriam to come back. He wasn't sure what would come next, what else there was to do here. Dean had been cut and scraped, twisted something in his leg, thrown, tossed, choked - he said all this to Sam while promising that he was fine, but it was the least sounding 'fine' Sam had heard come out of his mouth. To tell the truth, Dean looked five minutes to death in the low light of the tent. He was worried what the light of day might show, whenever the sun came out again.

It wasn't long before Miriam returned with Ivan in tow. A tight bandage was wrapped around one of his legs, the pant leg cut off, and his bare arms bore the marks of a cat fight. His hair was broken from its gelled place and his skin was pale as salt. He had walked in alongside his mother using her cane as support, nodding in his typical gruffness towards Dean when they met eyes. Dean looked amazed. Sam would learn later what had happened.

Miriam didn't ask what had happened outside the tent and neither shared what had happened inside it. She gave them quick directions towards the next town and the brothers slipped out of the room. But not before Miriam gave a cursory not towards Dean and placed a soft hand on Sam's arm, sharing a wink, then moved to care for her son.

He'd been shocked to see the car; the bullet hole in the back window, and dents in the metal against the driver's side. Dazed, he'd helped Dean get in the passenger's seat and stepped back while he situated himself, wondering exactly what kind of hell he had left his brother in, but the engine still turned over. And so they lived now in the darkness of nightfall, stopped along the side of a back road where Sam had pulled the car over. They were in the middle of a stretch of farmland on a road that had no lines and plenty of potholes. They sat for a moment in the idle car, letting the heater blow. Neither spoke, only stared at the night around them. The rain had slowed to a drizzle while he'd driven and had now gone still.

Sam took himself out of the car and walked around, opened Dean's door. Their clothes were wet still despite the drive. He helped Dean out his belt and set him against the side of the car, then moved to the trunk to dig through their bags. The zipper of Dean's suitcase had split open in whatever impact had dented the car, his clothing in a wild pile, tossed everywhere. As he grabbed for clothes to use, he caught the sense of his detachedness, that he couldn't possibly be here, in this moment. No, he was somewhere else, hearing Miriam's words. _ Someday this pain will be useful to you_. He'd thought, _when will that be?_ Maybe he was happier holding onto it for now, till the time came.

They fell into an old dance of sorts. Helping Dean peel off the old clothes, careful of his pains and the forming bruises. Sam was reminded of the times this had happened at home - wherever that might have been at the time - after something or other had gotten a hold of him while they had been out with John. He was reminded too of how sick the sight always made him; Dean grimacing, sucking in his breath, bleeding, or worse. He knew it too, Sam thought, what it did to him. That was why he always pretended the help never bothered him.

There was no pretending tonight. Although the sky had stopped pouring rain over them clouds still covered the stars and a breeze blew its last breaths across the fields. They hadn't said anything much after getting in the car, and neither during the drive down the country road, Dean a perfect statue while he stared blankly out the window in his soaked clothes. Sam had done the same. Not one word of the charm or the shredded tire or the storm or the friendly witch, nor Dean's less-than-friendly witch. But now Dean stood shivering. When the shirt came over his head his teeth were chattering though his mouth was closed, and his skin underneath was nothing but goose-bumps, his hands clasped into fists at his sides. Sam wondered if the sun were out what he would see. He elected to put a dry shirt on him instead.

"Here, put this over you," Sam said, pulling a spare blanket around Dean's shaking shoulders. He was stiff as a board. He let Sam put the blanket around him, closing his eyes no doubt at the feel of the dry fabric. Sam's hands were cold, but he knew that if he could have felt it, Dean's skin would have been ice. His heart had hardened over the events of the day but he couldn't help the instinct to care for his brother. "Get back in the car, let the heater blow on - "

Dean jerked his head, humming his dissent. "No," he said through gritted teeth, "I can't - can't sit in there. Right now."

Sam opened his mouth to convince him, but stilled, watching as the grief fell over Dean's face, his shaking growing stronger despite the blanket. Dean opened his eyes and looked up to the sky, the whites gleaming.

"I almost - " He stopped, and swallowed. "Almost killed us. Got us killed. It's - " The dam spilled over and a tear ran a fast track down his cheek, but Dean's swipe was faster. The fabric of the blanket ate the tear before it could fall from his jaw.

For a moment Sam didn't know how to answer. Because Dean was right. He almost had. So Sam settled for rubbing the Dean's shoulder in camaraderie, watching his face. Dean sagged under the new weight and leaned back against the car. When his head dipped the welled tears fell this time, a few spare drops to add to the rain of the day, striking Sam at his buried heartstrings. It wasn't that Sam had never seen Dean emotional. But seeing Dean's body, so saturated and heavy with guilt, and knowing that these tears weren't out of any physical pain but from the rawness of how strong he felt, it was…

Sam's nose burned suddenly. He sniffled and rolled his eyes, washing away the moister in them. He stepped away, taking his hand with him. "You, uh - you better lose your pants, too, Dean. You're gonna freeze." From under his arm Sam took the new clothes and set them on the roof of the car.

For a moment Dean hadn't seemed to hear, but he nodded, pushing himself away the car. Through the opening in the blanket Dean fumbled at his belt with numbed fingers, thick with cold, wincing at what pain he felt in his shaking hands, at the metal _tink _each time his fingers died. Dean's breathing sounded hard and Sam took a deep one of his own. He turned in place, stalked away before he saw anything more, before he lost his cool and did anything to help. This mess was both of theirs, in the end - he was understanding that now - but he didn't feel ready to cross this ravine. Sam went back to the trunk and removed his own wet clothing, stuffing them back in his duffel without a worry for how they would dry. He could hear Dean's shuffles a few feet away as he slowly changed.

The dark fields stretched out around them like waves of black ocean, the tops of the fauna catching whatever light they could like scant gems, swaying in the dying tendrils of the breeze. It felt oddly warmer now that the rain had stopped, and Sam let out a relieved sigh as he sat on the roadside pebbles, atop the mouth of an irrigation ditch. His bare feet skirted mere inches above the surface of the water. The hazed light of the moon was reflected in the collected water that rushed passed, in a way Sam could sympathize with. He didn't know how irrigation ditches worked and if this was the rain from the death of the storm. And after his time with Miriam, and seeing it with his own eyes, Sam knew that 'death' was the only appropriate word for it. He let his mind wander along the surface of the water, riding the reflection of moonlight on the ditchwater till it sank and disappeared, wishing himself away along with it.

The sound of footsteps and dislodged pebbles brought Sam out of the scene and back to his body, and the feeling of Dean's hand on his shoulder was heavy while he eased himself down to sit beside him. Dean still had the old blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, and before he cinched it up under his chin Sam could see the new dry t-shirt and black gym shorts. He hadn't noticed at first but he'd given Dean one of his own t-shirts.

"Do you feel better?" Sam asked.

Dean rocked himself side to side, lodging the blanket underneath his legs to trap himself inside the warmth. He nodded. "Thank you." In the scant light Dean's face looked awash in a pale glow. The shadows under his eyes stood out in contrast while his hair stood wildly on end. Somewhere he must have found something dry enough to rub over is head. There was no doubting that he was exhausted, and, Sam hoped, warm. Sam looked down at his own hands where he was picking at his palm, stifling the instinct to reach out and wrap Dean tighter in the blanket, then back out at the horizon.

"I'm…sorry, Sam." Dean's voice was barely above a whisper, grim, joining the quiet lull of the wind.

Sam felt his chin jut out, grow tense, but he still let the words sink in. "I know you are," he answered. Sam let a heartbeat pass. "And I am too."

The breeze hefted slightly, shuffling the stalks in the fields, lifting away a few strands of Sam's hair before falling short again. Dean huddled closer to himself.

"The charm," Dean said finally. "You sounded like you…" He faded away, tentative, like he was reaching for Sam to catch on.

"Yeah, we figured it out. Miriam and I. And it - " Sam broke off as a snide laugh left his mouth. "Explained a lot."

"A lot of…what?"

"At the Chevron you said it was something for good luck while we were on the trip, but it wasn't."

Dean huffed through his nose. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"It was a summoning charm."

Dean stilled while he looked at Sam in shock, his brows raised in curiosity.

Sam went on, "For ghosts."

Dean blinked his narrowed, tired eyes once, twice, then broke his stare to look out a the field. Sam saw his eyes widen over the next few moments as the layers peeled back in his mind.

"There was wormwood for conjuration, and…other things that I don't know what they were, but Miriam did. Ms. Gonzales, she'd used your hair as an 'anchor'," Sam said, "to give the ghosts a place to focus on so they would follow us, and so the charm would know where to return to whenever it was in danger. And she'd used one of mine as the only one who was allowed to…" He gestured vaguely, as though he were tearing something, then dropped his hands with a shake of his head. "Dispatch it, is the word Miriam used. Ms. Gonzalez probably thought I would never find out about the charm in the first place, so that you wouldn't be able to destroy it. But I guess that's why I was able to steal it from you…when I did."

That gave Dean another shock. His mouth was open when he faced back to Sam. "One of your - a hair?"

Sam nodded. "So it was a good thing, I guess you could say. You thinking she needed my hair, too."

"No, I did not give her a piece of your hair. I never would have done that."

Sam met Dean's stare. _That can't be right_, he thought, but the tired insistence in Dean's eyes, and the assuredness that he said his words, gave Sam pause. "You didn't."

"Fuck no I didn't."

Sam stared on, focusing his eyes to find the lie, and while he might not have found it Sam still couldn't decide whether or not to believe him, all things considered.

He broke off and scrubbed his hand over his face, at his eyes, trying to be clean of this night and its contents. "Whatever," he said, "it doesn't matter anymore. It's done."

Dean, though, was dazed. "That fucking…" Sam looked back at the water in the ditch, nodding his head. "She really fucked over…everybody."

They shared another fleeting moment of silence while Dean came to his terms, Sam supposed. And while Dean told his story of the night, of being attacked by the witch who wouldn't die, who had blamed the both of them for Ms. Gonzales' shit, Sam only listened. It wasn't until he'd reached the explosion in the mirror house, where Ivan had come to save him, that he'd felt his heart blip with a tense feeling. It was like being an observer while two cars narrowly missed an accident, that fastening of his anxiety knowing that they had avoided a tragedy by nothing more than mere seconds on a clock. Dean told Sam of the many times he almost died, and the one moment he thought he had.

"And it was, like…" His voice had taken on a gravely sound while he talked, exhausted beyond function. "Like you'd been snatched from me for everything I'd done. I was paying for it. If I was going anywhere, I knew it was hell. I didn't deserve anything else."

Sam looked down, swallowing. Where he picked at his hand was now a sharp pain. He found his own anchor there, in that pain, so he could keep what he was hearing at a little bit of a distance. He better understood Dean's early words and the tears he'd shed, now. _Almost killed us. Got us killed_. The danger had been real, he knew, but he hadn't known of the killer chasing Dean, only knew that he could feel his power, his bloodlust, while he was pinning Dean to the ground. Perhaps it wasn't as clear before, before he'd reached this place of hindsight. A piece of him wanted to return to the ignorance.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," Dean said again. "For what happened with dad a year ago and for what happened tonight, for lying to you - everything. For all of it. And I was never mad about the money, just…being an asshole."

Sam took a deep breath and held it in, looking at the soft haze of the moon through the dispersing storm clouds. They passed as though they had somewhere else to be, rushing away in the way that left a person feeling dizzy on the solid ground, and even as he watched the moon was revealed in her fullness, the clouds no longer interested in hiding the night. Dean's prodding gaze was heavy on Sam's face. Words meant more at night, Sam thought. They were the clouds parting to let the moon shine. Revealing, somehow. Maybe it was in the weightlessness of the night where you could let truths fly, and they wouldn't be shot down by the sun.

And yet, Sam still found it hard to speak. Couldn't admit that certain pieces of this had been his fault too. He'd backed Dean into a corner where he'd felt no other option than to lie. He knew that. Yet…these were the kinds of truths that the years would swallow and hide behind other things, like common clutter in a closet, till the day came where he could face them.

"Sam?"

In the distance a yellow light appeared through a window, letting the squat house take shape in the night as it hadn't before.

"You know, I'd feel a lot better if you answered me."

"What do you want me to say, Dean?" Their tones were so conversational, quiet, it was almost as if the world hadn't almost ended that night.

"That you - that I didn't screw things up between us. Again."

Sam looked around, suddenly holding his breath, though he kept his features trained, neutral. It was true, but…

"I…" Sam started. The strength he'd clutched at so far was beginning to wane so his voice was thin. "Can't say that, exactly."

They sat.

"What do you want to do now?" Sam asked, to Dean or to the world around him.

Dean kept his eyes on Sam, waiting for some elaboration, most likely, so that it wouldn't make the type of sense Dean was most afraid of. The yellow light disappeared from the window just as it had come, in an instant.

Sam let out his breath. "I think I want to go home," he went on, turning to Dean. "Back to Lyon. To…" He paused, reading Dean's expression. "Whatever. Straighten things out. Then we can go somewhere else, you and me." Sam swallowed. "Right?"

They stared at each other for a beat of the heart. In his eyes Dean held the rawness of his skinned emotions, his drained spirit, his well that had gone dry, but still his voice was silent. His eyes had spoken for him. Sam saw that it stung. _Good_, he'd thought. Because it hadn't been clear enough to Sam before then that Dean's apology was genuine. Dean nodded silently, looking away, but together they spent a silent moment more before rising.


	40. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Thursday, May 2nd, 2002

The map had been one of the few things left untouched by the events of the night. By the interior light **Sam **traced a new line back to Mississippi, the tip of his pen hesitating before reaching the black letters that read, 'Lyon', before etching a circle around the town itself. Dean had hobbled back to the car with Sam's help, falling into the passenger seat once again without a sound besides a grunt of pain. Sam could see - he was losing a fight against his exhaustion, the harsh bags under his eyes more pronounced then before in the yellow light of the cab, and even before Sam had started the car, Dean was asleep with the blanket under his chin and the seat belt keeping it all in place.

Sam followed the empty country road till once again joining Highway 75, nothing but the glow of the radio and Dean's steady breath keeping him company. It was nearly impossible to believe they had been on this same highway just hours earlier, when he shredded the tire and…started this all. The bullet hole in the rear window whistled to a higher pitch while he accelerated.

"Sammy," murmured the tired voice to his side. By this point they couldn't have been on the road for more than half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. "Happy birthday."

Sam looked at Dean whose eyes were still closed, slumped in his chair under the blanket, then turned to the radio. The digital clock proved Dean's words were true. 12:43 AM, May 2nd, 2002.

—

If **Sam **were ever the type to cry about missing the ball drop on his birthday, this was the night for that, because within the passing few miles they crossed into the city of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and into the previous time zone. The clock on the radio announced the time was a few minutes before 1 AM, and as Sam took an exit and eased into the roadside gas station, he rolled back the hour. Parked at a pump near the Tennessee border, Dean asleep with his head against the window, a bullet hole in their back window, and a driver's side door he had to kick to open, Sam celebrated his birthday for the second time that day, watching the hour change to midnight.

—

**Sam **used some of his cash for gas, thankful Chattanooga was large enough to sport all-night stations like this, and had even splurged for a soda. At this point coffee would only make him sick, but he was still determined to stay awake. He knew he couldn't stretch this out any longer than he already had. It had to end today. He paid for his gas and his drink with the bored-looking cashier, grabbing Dean a pack of small convenience store donuts last minute, for whenever he woke up. Sam watched him sleep through the window while he pumped the gas, and he didn't wake up still when they pulled away from the station, and even through the heinous whistle while Sam got them back on the highway.

Their ransacked car limped across the border into Georgia for a moment, wound them back into Tennessee, and finally deposited them into Alabama a few miles later. Sam watched the 'Welcome to Tennessee!' sign retreat in his rearview mirror through the small spiderweb of cracks. Each sign he passed and each line he crossed, with every announcement of the passing miles and roadside rest stops, it was becoming truer. His return. It made his heart race. For a moment he'd even considered calling John, just to…he didn't know, but in the end it was pointless. The phone was lost somewhere in the car, and no doubt soaked from the rain like everything else, or lying with a dead battery. It didn't matter. John didn't need a warning that he was coming back. It wasn't going to last long anyway.

Such was the cycle of thoughts in Sam's head while he drove that he didn't bother with the radio or the boxes of tapes in the back seat, thrown across the floor now. The night was still and silent, the blackness of the road unbroken besides their headlights and the rare semi truck that joined them. He wanted to keep it that way. After the day he was content listening to Dean's deep breaths. He could have done without the screaming window, however. The hours passed as did another sign, setting Sam's nerves on edge. 'Welcome to Mississippi!'.

The scenery began shifting into the land of the familiar, and it was beginning to hit Sam how close they were coming. They passed exit signs for Tupelo and Chesterville, some of these places Sam had never been to but had heard of, living in Mississippi for the time he had; later on, before Sam knew it, they approached the off-ramp for Oxford, and Sam's breath clenched in his chest, pausing his heart. He and Claudia had made a day trip there once along with her parents when they first started dating, to look at the university. Sam watched the passing city through the passenger window, and noticed then that Dean's eyes were open, the clenched ones of someone just waking up. The streetlights at the exit bathed them in light then left them in darkness, then again a few times more, till Oxford was behind them. Sam let go of his breath.

A hand entered Sam's peripheral. Dean patted Sam's knee. Did he know what Sam was feeling?

"Everything will be fine, dude," he said with the might of a yawning dog. His hand slid away and Dean was asleep once more. The closer they got to Lyon, though, Sam was beginning to wonder.

Sam drove. He passed Alesville soon after, then Batesville after twenty minutes more, where he'd spent his eighteenth birthday on a hunt with John. He drove. The ebony sky began its transition to morning, throwing away the covers to begin the day. He drove. They reached the town of Marks, where Sam had eaten lunch one day spent ditching school with friends. He swallowed. Alongside the sun Dean had come out from under the blankets looking better than he had, but not well. It was clear that he could have slept for hours more still, and then more after that. Sam, however, had never felt more awake. He was bouncing his leg and tapping the wheel to the silent music. In some coincidence they only had enough gas to get them to Lyon, maybe Clarksdale, if the wind pushed them. They would have to stop regardless of how he felt anymore. Strangely, he didn't mind the stop so badly anymore. It felt more like fate this way.

He'd had hundreds of miles and hours of impenetrable silence to imagine what he would say to John, how he would possibly tie all of these lose ends together and still walk away believing he did the right thing, in the right ways. But he hadn't. Or couldn't, maybe. At this point, maybe there was no right way any longer. Only the way that would allow everyone to move on. Though, he knew he didn't need John to understand, or Claudia to forgive him, and neither could he ask them to. Or force them. All he could do was show himself bare to them. Be honest. It would have to be enough. He had to believe that, or go mad. Then him and Dean could be out of there.

It didn't matter whether or not he had rehearsed his words, or written a script, for John. With squeaking breaks, Sam eased the car against the curb, looking up at the same old apartment and noticed the blinds on the windows were closed against in the morning light. Not odd for, say, the neighbors, but John should have been awake. Climbing out of the car, taking his first steps in more than 7 hours, Sam stretched his arms over his head. He looked around the parking lot then paused. Dean pulled himself from his seat, using the top of the car for support.

"His car's gone," Sam said. He didn't know whether to feel disappointed or glad.

"I've got a key," Dean answered, rubbing his hands over his face. He pulled himself along on his hurt ankle to stop at the trunk, which Sam had to pull open.

The parking lot held an eerie silence. Sam had never seen the apartments at this hour, he realized. Sam had expected John to be here waiting for them, furious and ready to kill. Could they have somehow beat him back from Salt Lake? Maybe he should have looked harder for the phone, called ahead.

While Dean dug through the mess in the trunk, murmuring about how fucked it was - "thanks to someone" - Sam walked to their front door, and froze. Next to the frame sat a short stack of medium-sized cardboard boxes. The tops weren't taped but closed with the folded flaps. At the looks of one's crushed side and the bulging side of another, Sam had the impression that whoever packed them was in a hurry. Or upset. He pulled the flap of the top box, opening easily.

These were…Sam's clothes. He plucked the topmost article and pulled it out, showing a red hoodie he knew only as his, revealing a mess of clothes underneath. None of them were folded. Instead, they were shoved inside with the abandon of trash. It was becoming hard to catch his breath, though it hadn't dawned on Sam yet exactly as to why.

He glanced to the side. Taped to the door was a single white envelope. The top was torn to pieces, rather than sliced. He plucked it off the door, the world reduced to the simple sound of the tape coming free of the paint. Sam turned the envelope around while sliding out the contents, and gasped.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean eased up to Sam's shoulder with the sound of jangling keys. Sam felt him craning his neck to see. Just then, a loose page dropped away from the stack in Sam's hand. It fluttered to the ground out of his vision.

"I - " Sam said, before losing his breath again. He turned, putting up the letter, but he didn't smile.

The letter began, underneath the introduction of the Dean of Stanford, 'We are pleased to congratulate you…'

"I got in," Sam breathed.

Dean held in his hand the page that had escaped, having plucked it from the ground. In his expression was a shock Sam knew wasn't the tale of anything great. He turned it for Sam to read.

In hasty handwriting Sam knew as John's were the words, 'If you want to leave so bad, here's your chance.'


	41. October 31st, 2005 - 2:47 AM

Writer's note: Final chapters come this Friday, 1/17! Thank you to everyone who opens the story and has read along with me!

_October 31st, 2005_

_ 2:47 AM_

_The figure passes through the moonlight while you're huddled against the hall, forcing your breath to submit. In a thinking part of your brain it reaches you how naturally one slips back into long forgotten habits once flight-or-fright kicks in. Old, practiced tendencies shape your hands into fists and once again make your footsteps so light you might not be touching the ground at all. Watching the shadow slip passed the kitchen window and behind the wall, you realize your heart isn't beating with fear, but with its close neighbor, anticipation. This is what's been agonizing you, waiting for. Forward progress, and finally._

_What you know that the intruder does not is that they're trapped - they can either leave through the door, wander in the circle that is the floor plan of your apartment, or follow the only other hallway, which leads to the bedroom and bathroom. The hallway, which, coincidentally, you are blocking._

_You flex the fingers of your hand. After a glance, you slip like a ghost from the hall and into the deeper shadows of the room. This is your battlefield; you have the upper hand. The sparks of adrenaline are lighting up your fingertips like sparklers._

_A few breaths later, the figure passes into the room soundlessly._

_Deep breath. _ You jump to wrap an arm around their neck.


	42. Epilogue

Epilogue

A few weeks later

The weeks passed despite **Dean's **wishes, faster than time had any right to. He stood in the warm sun of the parking lot, hands hung at his sides, his eyes closed against the light while Sam dug in the trunk to collect his things, wishing it would thaw him out just a little. That maybe it would put some life back into his blood that he hadn't felt in a while. It was coming to a head, this storm, different entirely and yet, just as threatening, he thought.

"Ready to go?"

Dean opened his eyes and focused on Sam. He was blushed in the cheeks, his smile wide, though Dean saw the anxiousness in it. In his arms were the things he couldn't live without, a few things to get him along on the bus ride, clutched to his chest like it was going to run away. That was what Dean wanted to do right then. Force his arms around his brother, keep him from running away.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his head while urged his jaw to unclench. He brought to his face what he hoped was a convincing smile. "Let's go, brother." He took the handle of the wheeled suitcase out of Sam's hand and they walked on.

Clarksdale's bus station was on the nicer end of the bus stations that Dean had seen, with a high, shaded awning that covered rows of benches to give the passengers a cool place to wait for their bus. Monitors stood at the curb before the six-lane road, sharing which routes were on time and which were late. Dean stood before it, watching Sam while he watched the screen. There was a soreness in the back of his throat that he couldn't help but try to swallow down.

_So this is it_, Dean thought. You couldn't stop a runaway train. Would Sam call, like he promised? Write? Come back for Christmas maybe? During his break? If staying in Lyon meant that Sam had someplace to come back to, Dean would stay a hundred years, that was no argument. But that would never mean he didn't want to be wherever Sam was, though. No house was - or had ever been - a home without him in it, and this last month of living together again, finally, had proved that. They'd made it their own little home over the weeks, not so necessarily out of necessity. John had told Sam not to come back and he hadn't. Dean hadn't spoken to him face-to-face in months, not while Sam was under his roof, while they tried to figure this college thing out. Dean would stay behind, work on bringing John around to the idea then they would all meet up again in California. Sam didn't have much faith that plan would work but Dean needed to try before their family was split up forever. He'd make it work. Sam had said California wouldn't be the end - not in so many words - but even while they planned for the future things were feeling suspiciously…final.

"Okay, so, it's on time." Sam turned with a toothy grin. Dean wished he could see a sign of insecurity, hesitancy, but he didn't.

"We made it just in time then," he said, putting his stomach in it so he didn't sound so eviscerated.

Sam nodded, letting go of his breath. Getting out of the house had taken longer than it should have. Dean hoped it had been enough to delay this.

They walked to the gathered crowd of people waiting for their busses. Dean wondered how many of them would be with Sam all the way to California, if any. He opened his mouth. A bus came from behind, revving its engine, cutting him off as it passed. Greyhound, with the numbers 4-7-5 on the side.

Sam's.

Dean's stomach flipped, the sound of the busses and people around them suddenly too loud. He grimaced. The crowd seated at the benches rose, pulling along their things, while the bus eased to a halt in front of them.

Sam's overshirt fluttered behind him in the breeze like a curtain. "Come on, Dean."

His fingers were growing cold despite the warm summer heat. Yet he walked on, meeting Sam at his place in line while others queued up behind them.

"Are you, uh - " Dean's voice suddenly fell away. He swallowed, looking around at the people. "You sure you'll be fine?"

"I'm sure it'll be great. The site said that even if I lose my tickets they can still find me, and I've got my phone. Money for when we stop."

Dean exhaled. "I didn't like the sound of the landlord on the phone. If he fucks you over - "

"It'll be fine." Sam paused, looking at Dean. He blinked and looked away.

A stranger's voice. "Hey, bud?" A man and woman behind Sam waved their hands to usher him forward. The line was moving. Dean's heart was not.

"Okay, okay." Dean put a finger on Sam's chest. "You call me the second you're there, and at every stop. If you need help, whatever. Want to come home. Hear me?"

Sam hesitated, and there it was - what Dean was waiting for. The wrinkle in his forehead, the roll of his lips. But it was gone in a moment, buried or washed away, evaporated. Sam nodded. "I will."

Dean pulled Sam into a hug at the shoulders, clutching him like he'd been doing for days now, like he'd been slipping away all this time, regardless of what Dean did. Now was the time for it, though, before he wouldn't get to for…how long?

A man in a Greyhound uniform appeared at their sides and took Sam's rolling suitcase with him, passing it to another uniform to stow away in the undercarriage. Sam pulled away with a sniffle, swiping at his face in the same way Dean was, both too prideful to let the other see. But they knew. At least, Dean did.

"Make good decisions," Dean said, planting his hands in his pockets.

Sam opened his mouth but stayed silent, turning down his eyes with another nod. At the mouth of the bus Sam offered up his ticket. The man tore the paper down the middle, passed it back, then Sam walked up the steps, and that was it.

The last of the passengers boarded the bus, the workers sealing the undercarriage compartments while Dean watched what he knew was the back of Sam's head. He turned, and they caught eyes just as the main doors closed. Even through the dirt on the window Dean could see the glisten of tearing eyes. Maybe they weren't to prideful, after all. Sam waved, offering a sad grin. Dean waved back.

A cloud of exhaust flew away from the tailpipe while the bus pulled away, and, dully, Dean asked himself why everyone he loves always disappeared behind clouds of smoke.


	43. October 31st, 2005 - 2:50 AM

_October 31st, 2005_

_2:50 AM_

_The bastard is quick. He grabs your wrist, twists out of your hold like he'd practiced it exactly. In the dark, everything is a shadow against a shadow, but you feel rather than see the attacker's free hand going for your stomach. You jump away, and him back, missing it._

_More punches, some you are able to block with your forearms and others with your palms, the rest with simple steps to the side. And just the same, he's dodging yours so cleanly that nothing you're throwing will land. He's taken you forwards and backwards; you've spun him in circles. But not one hit._

_So you try a kick, to trip him and pin him, but rather than fall for the trap he finally gets you in the chest. You're locked backwards, prone, yet the shadow doesn't advance, instead bounces on his feet. Like he's waiting for you. A wicked grin comes to your face before you flick back your hair and rush at his legs._

_Vaguely you begin thinking of this as some kind of dance, not because he's matching you step-for-step or adding a fancy spin to his dodges - it's because this feels all too familiar. Almost…rehearsed. He grunts from the force behind a push to your shoulders when you get too close. The material of his clothing finds a stray gleam of light and your mind recalls a photograph, of your brother in a similar coat, standing at a gas pump. You swing at his ribs. He blocks._

_All at once you realize why this feels like some kind of recital and why this man knows where your punches will hit and where to throw his, but it doesn't come until after he's got you on the floor and you're staring up at the face of a smiling devil._

_Eyes green like the spring, steadfast as the ocean. He grins like he's never done a thing wrong in his life. _

_It's taken this tree weeks to fall, and, just as you'd guessed, it had done so right on top of you._

_"Dean?"_


End file.
